The Standoff
by smuffly
Summary: A night out on the town turns into a fully-fledged nightmare for Adam, Don and Danny. A team fic, set in season 8, directly after the events of Flash Pop. Warning: this fic will contain cliffhangers and deadly peril! If you like that kind of thing (and don't we all?) then read on...
1. Chapter 1

**THE STANDOFF**

_**A good, old-fashioned tale of peril.**_

_**This story takes place after the events of 'Flash Pop' (Season 8).**_

_**-x0x-**_

**Chapter One**

"Okay – I'm just gonna come right out and say it. Not your best idea, Messer," Don Flack muttered.

"Not my idea at all." Danny's teeth clacked together unexpectedly as a little tremor shook him. _Man_, it was cold tonight… He shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to be stoic about the whole thing.

"Lindsay?" Flack persisted.

"Of course Lindsay. Who is, I'd like to point out, all toasty and warm at the lab right now, taking _my_ shift. Doin' me a 'favour'… which means I'm in her _debt_ for this, so count yourself lucky."

Together, in silence, they stared at the figure who stumped along in front of them, his shoulders hunched, his breath rising into the cold night air like a gloomy little cloud around his head.

"She told you to drag Adam out when it's real clear he'd rather be anywhere but?"

"You called it." Danny gave a rueful grin and raised his voice an octave. "'Not good for him to be alone,' she said. And you know my wife can be very persuasive."

Flack grinned too, clearly tickled by Danny's impersonation of his other half. "Lindsay doesn't understand the manly art of sulking?"

"Oh, she understands it. She just has no time for… Adam! Wait up! We're here, okay?" Cutting their conversation short, he skipped ahead and managed to snag Adam's coat with his numb fingers.

"Danny – what?" From the look on Adam's face, it was clear that he had been miles away.

_You're not even here with us, are you?_ Danny thought, far from immune to the irony. "Down the steps. Leporello's. Warmth, beer, music, other people…. Beer…"

"You said that already," his friend told him gravely, with a subtle gleam in his eye that said Fun Adam was still in there somewhere.

The dark circles _around_ his eyes, though – that was a different matter.

Danny reconsidered. "You wanna go home?" he offered quietly. "You're not enjoying this, are you?"

"What, and drag Flack away?" Adam forced a smile and pointed down the steps, to where the tail of Flack's coat was already disappearing through the doorway of the bar. A pleasant wave of heat and light spilled out to greet them, laughter in its wake. "Sounds cosy, okay? I'm _fine,_" he added, slapping Danny on the arm. "Let's do this. First round's on me - you got two at the last place."

And he hurried down the steps, darting this way and that to avoid the icy patches.

"Cosy?" Danny raised an eyebrow. "I can do cosy." Not high on his list of top ten words to describe the perfect night on the town – not even on the same page, in fact - but hey! at least Adam was talking again. That was good, right?

_Couple more beers down his throat and I'm gonna regret that thought, _he predicted wryly, bringing up the rear as the two men followed Don Flack into the warmth of Leporello's Bar.

-x0x-

Marvin Unger knew his place in life. But why, he wondered gloomily, did his place always have to be so uncomfortable? Take the back seat of Tig's car, for example. Tig made him ride in the back every time – _for ballast_, he said, with a smug grin that Marvin tried to puzzle out. Since Tig's car was tiny and Marvin was huge, he guessed the joke was on him and he thought he understood it. He could see how very entertaining it must be for Tig and his clever friends to watch him bend and squeeze his way into the narrow space behind them, with his knees pressed up against his chest and his curly hair brushing the ceiling…

_That's my place. I'm the butt-end; always at the back. _Marvin sighed and stuck a finger in his mouth, tugging on a hangnail with his teeth.

"Stop that," said a firm voice from the driver's seat.

"Sorry, Tig," Marvin mumbled around his finger. Every day, the same reminder. He spat the tiny piece of nail out of the window and let the finger drop from his mouth. A string of drool was still attached. He watched in fascination as it snapped apart and landed on his sweater. _Like a snail's been crawling on my belly…_

"Why d'you bring him along?" In the passenger seat, right in front of him, Niall was buzzing with energy. Marvin could spend hours – even days - in blissful stillness, safe in the peace and quiet of his own room. He didn't think Niall knew _how_ to be still. It bothered him, whenever he tried to think about it.

Clearly, Marvin bothered Niall as well.

At least Tig stood up for him. "Why did I bring the _giant_? The one who looks like he could eat two heavyweights for breakfast and still have room to gnaw on the ref?"

"That's disgusting." Niall sniggered. "Made your point, though. Nice one."

"I don't eat people," Marvin protested mildly. Tig was always joking, and he didn't mind it really.

Niall's snigger turned into a nasty laugh. Tig smacked him on the shoulder. "Stop that," he said for the second time, as though Niall's laughter was a bad habit, just like Marvin's nail-biting. "Leave my brother be."

"Oh, what, like _you_ do?"

If moods were a colour, Marvin thought to himself, then this one would be green; bright green like the colour of Tig's flashing eyes.

"_My_ brother," Tig said tightly. "My responsibility."

"Whatever." Keen to escape, Niall opened the car door. "I need a drink."

"That's not the plan." Tig loved his plans. Marvin often wished _he_ was clever enough to come up with a brilliant scheme that would wow his brother. He also wished for rocket boots, a cloak of invisibility and the power to read minds. Impossible things – but dreaming about them was fun.

"It's _my_ plan. Drink first. We gotta blend in, right? Catch 'em unawares, you said, not burst through the door, guns blazing, like Butch 'n' Sundance." Niall had a fondness for cowboy movies. Marvin preferred cartoons. The violence was much the same, but no one ever got hurt or killed for real in a cartoon, not even Wile E. Coyote, his favourite character. Butch and Sundance – he remembered that one. Niall and Tig had made him sit through it but he didn't like the ending, not one bit. He liked the bicycle, though… And the song. How did _that_ go..?

"Raindrops keep fallin' on my head," he sang happily, under his breath.

"Are you _kiddin'_ me?" Niall was all the way out of the car by now, and he wrenched the back door open. "Get out. Get _out_, you halfwit."

_Slam! Bang!_ Marvin felt rather than saw his brother's reaction. Faster than thought, Tig was out of the car and Niall was in his grip, spread-eagled on the dirty silver hood. No words passed between them. Marvin shuddered. A silent Tig was a dangerous Tig; he knew that all too well.

So did Niall. "I went… I went too far," he choked at last, spitting out words as though they were sharp little fish bones. "Sorry, Tig."

"And?" Tig's voice was calm, as though this was no more than a pleasant conversation between friends. Poking his head out of the window, Marvin watched with growing concern as poor Niall's face turned scarlet, his throat bulging in Tig's stranglehold.

"I can't… I… Leggo…"

Tig loosened his grip. "_And?_" he repeated softly.

"And Marvin. Sorry…" Niall reached up and rubbed his neck as Tig backed off, full of smug satisfaction. "You know me, right, buddy? My mouth runs away with me sometimes. I don't mean anythin' by it, not really…" He offered the garbled apology to Marvin, as instructed, but his gaze never left Tig's face.

Marvin eased himself out of the car. "S'okay," he said to Niall cheerfully. Ambling over, he reached out and offered an arm to the smaller man, lifting him off the hood with ease and setting him back on his feet. Just in time, he resisted the urge to straighten Niall's wrinkled clothing. "Better now?"

Tig answered for his friend. "Oh, we're golden." Lifting the back of his jacket momentarily, he checked the gun that was hidden in his waistband. A tight smile hooked the corner of his mouth and pulled it upwards. "Shall we?"

"Yes, Tig," they both said fervently.

"First drink's on you, right Niall? It's your 'plan', after all, so you can put your money where your mouth is…"

"Yes, Tig." There was a glint in Niall's eye but only Marvin saw it, since Tig was already walking away from the two of them, expecting them to follow like a couple of dogs at his heels...

Follow him down the street to Leporello's Bar.

-x0x-

**A/N: Dun dun duhhhhh...**


	2. Chapter 2

**THE STANDOFF**

**A/N: For those of you who haven't seen Flash Pop (Season 8), it concerns the murder of a young lab tech, Jessica Drake, and includes one of my all-time favourite Adam moments, which is mentioned in this chapter.**

**-x0x-**

**Chapter Two**

"Strange kinda place for you to choose," Danny commented to Flack as they paused in the doorway to stomp the snow from their boots. "What made you think of… hey no, wait, I get it!"

Following the path of Danny's gaze, which moved directly from Flack's loopy grin to the dark-haired beauty behind the bar, Adam felt his jaw drop. "She's nice," he offered wistfully. "What's her name?"

"No." Flack's tone was adamant. "No way. I saw her first."

"Meaning you don't _know_ her name yet," Danny challenged him.

"'Yet'. A technicality…"

"Okay – but I feel a wager coming on."

Adam's concentration began to slip as the two detectives moved away, still knocking the one-liners back and forth with ease. On any other day, he might have joined them – he could be witty enough when he chose. But there was a dull ache inside him today and he just couldn't summon the energy.

"I'll get the drinks. You find a table," he called, not really caring whether or not they heard him. Losing himself in the crowd was a strange kind of comfort. Somehow, he managed to weave a path to the bar without collecting too many bruises. He clutched at the wooden counter like a ship-wrecked mariner who has finally found a floating spar.

"You okay there?" said the dark-eyed beauty, smirking.

"Um," he replied, feeling awkward. The barmaid _was_ hot – even more so, now that he was dangerously close to her radiant aura – but even Adam, who was reckless to the point of insanity when it came to hot women, knew that this one was light years out of his league.

"I'll take that as a 'maybe'," she suggested, clearly relishing his predicament.

"Adam," he cried out, all in a rush, as his voice broke free. "Me, I mean. That's my name. Adam Ross. And I'm fine, yeah, thanks for asking. Um… busy tonight?" he continued, changing the subject quickly.

"No, not really." Letting the sarcasm linger, she cast her brown eyes – _oh,_ those brown eyes – over the milling crowd. A loud, ugly laugh broke out across the room, making Adam jump. At the same time, it brought him to his senses.

"Three beers," he said politely. "Please. The best you've got – and one for yourself if, you know, they let you drink on the job. You probably need it, right?"

"Oh, so _there _you are, Adam Ross," the barmaid grinned. "Nice to meet you at last." With a sly wink, she took down four glasses and moved to the pump. Adam flushed to the roots of his hair and tightened his grip on the counter, trying not to drown in his own embarrassment.

-x0x-

"Shot you down in flames, did she?" Flack commented when Adam finally made it over to their table, beer sloshing tipsily onto the floor. "That one's yours." He pointed to the middle glass, which was half-empty by now. "Three out of ten for balance, Ross."

"And eleven out of ten for cheek," Danny added, slapping his friend on the back. "You _had_ to go there, didn't you, buddy?"

"Go where? Oh! No, I was just…" Adam set the three drinks down on the pock-marked table, feeling vaguely guilty that he was adding to the mess. A cold wet ring began to seep out across the varnish from the huddled glasses. "You want beer, you gotta ask a barmaid, right? Believe me, Flack, she's all yours," he said fervently. "Her name's Selena, by the way…"

Flack shook his head, no doubt torn between gratitude and the primal urge to punch Adam on the nose. "Selena?"

"Selena." Adam nodded. "All yours. Look, I really need to…" He gestured vaguely towards the back of the room. "Don't drink my beer, okay?" _Humour. Be funny. They're trying to cheer you up so let 'em think it's working._ "There's not much left."

The joke was poor and dropped like a stone as Adam beat a hasty retreat. He could _feel_ them watching him; two pairs of sharp blue eyes that always saw through him. Two brains that were capable of brilliant deductions.

_Some things are meant to be_ _private_, he thought fiercely. _I can deal with this myself…_

He knew what they both thought. After that outburst in the lab the other day… Adam flushed again to think of it. He had challenged _Mac Taylor_, of all people, sticking up for what he thought was right. Sticking up for his friends, the lab techs. Insisting that they couldn't possibly be murder suspects. And then, when Jo had tried to interfere… _I flounced,_ he thought gloomily. Flounced right out of there, after some kind of crazy, passionate speech. He could barely remember the words, but he still recalled the absolute silence that followed as he left the room.

"I'm so sorry, Jessica," he whispered, pausing in the middle of the crowd. Her death was a tragedy, senseless and cruel. Adam felt sick to the stomach whenever he thought about it. And yet…

And yet the sorrow that threatened to overwhelm him was only amplified by the murder of Jessica Drake.

A desperate fluttering beat at the edge of his mind, but he pushed it away. This was neither the time nor the place for a panic attack. "Men's room," he muttered grimly, and moved on.

-x0x-

Marvin had to stoop in order to ease his massive frame through the low door. He liked the tinkle of the bell, but he didn't like the crowd. Too many sounds, all jumbled together. He tried to straighten them out inside his head but it was impossible. "_Tig,_" he breathed urgently.

His brother raised a hand to silence him. "Get over it, Marvin," he said between clenched teeth, as though he didn't want the words to be overheard by anyone else.

Tig was always right, of course. Marvin nodded obediently, feeling ashamed of his weakness. "Can I have a Coke, then?" he asked, hoping the tickle and fizz of his favourite drink would calm his nerves.

"What? Sure… Niall, get him whatever he wants. And a whisky for me; Glenfiddich if they have it." Now that they were inside the bar, Tig's self-assurance seemed a little shaky. His gaze wandered around the room as though it could not find a place to settle. That made Marvin nervous too.

"If you don't want to do this, you know, we could go," he suggested.

"No-one's going anywhere," Tig growled, in that same mysterious voice. "We're gonna lock this place down so tight, even the roaches'll have to stay put."

Roaches? Marvin gave a shudder. He still remembered the time when an eight year old Tig had put cockroaches in his bed. That was a joke and so was this but, even now, Marvin didn't see how roaches could be funny.

Niall had a hand on his arm and was pushing him forwards. "Time to make yourself useful," he sneered. "We need a path to the bar – and you're the snow-plough."

"There's no snow in here… oh!" Marvin grinned in delight as the two images connected in his head. "I get it."

Imagining himself as a snow-plough clearing the way made it so much easier to deal with the heaving crowd. He led the way triumphantly, ignoring the glares and the angry looks. These people were strangers, after all, and Tig said strangers didn't matter. Only Family mattered.

In a generous move that was quite out of character, Niall rewarded him for his efforts with an extra large Coke. Marvin downed it in one massive gulp. He could feel it pulsing down his throat, fizzing merrily.

"Look at 'em all," Tig said after a brief, uncomfortable silence, nursing his whisky and glowering at the room in general. "They got no idea what's coming."

"Tig," Marvin said.

"We gotta time this right…"

"_Tig!"_

His brother slammed the whisky glass down on the counter and turned on him. "What?!"

"I have to go pee-pee."

"What, _now_? Are you kidding me?"

"I can't help it," Marvin whispered, full of remorse. "Tig, don't be mad at me, okay?" He crossed his legs and twisted uncomfortably. Niall's face wore a look of subtle triumph.

"Just go," Tig sighed. "Go!" He waved his hand for emphasis. "We'll wait for you. Don't talk to anyone," he added, urgently.

"I promise." Full of relief, Marvin stumped off through the crowd, head and shoulders above them all. His way was clear and his bulk made progress easy. He was determined to keep his promise to Tig. Luckily, there was only one other man in the bathroom; a funny little fellow with a beard who kept his eyes averted. _No talking, _Marvin reminded himself, for good measure. _Not one word…_

-x0x-

The stranger was huge. Unseen, Adam eyed him warily as they both washed their hands. The Giant had to stoop to reach the sink, and his fingers struggled with the faucet, turning it far too roughly…

"Help!" the man cried out in fright. A surge of water hit the bowl with force, bending upwards and spraying his sweatshirt. To Adam's great surprise, the Giant's eyes filled with tears and he stepped back, his bottom lip quivering.

"Hey, no, don't do that! It's okay. Look – I'm turning it off now." Leaping into action, Adam twisted the faucet and pulled out the plug. The basin emptied with a rapid gurgle. "No more water – see?"

The Giant patted his sweatshirt uncertainly. "I'm all wet," he moaned.

"Come over here then," Adam suggested, guiding him to the dryer with its stream of hot air. The Giant snorted back his tears and giggled instead. Together, they pulled out the front of his sweatshirt and let the hot air work its magic. "See? It'll be as good as new in no time."

"Uh-huh." As the watery stain receded, the Giant turned to Adam and smiled down at him. "Thank you."

"Oh, no problem."

"Yes," the Giant told him seriously, "it _was_ a problem. A big one. An' you solved it. You're very kind."

His gaze was childlike in its intensity. Adam wriggled nervously and stepped away. "Okay…" he said. "Look, I have to go back out there now. My friends are waiting for me."

"Yes," the Giant said. "Go away now. You're kind; you should def'nitely go. And don't come back again, okay?"

That stopped Adam in his tracks. Such a peculiar thing to say to a stranger.

"What?"

"Go home," the Giant insisted. "Take your friends."

"Go… _home_? But we've only just got here."

With a fine display of petulance, the Giant stamped his foot. Adam could have sworn he felt the bathroom shudder. "This is a bad place. You _have_ to listen."

"Okay…" Adam backed towards the door, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace. "Um – thanks for the warning, I guess. You have a good night now, you hear?"

"I won't," the Giant called after him gloomily. "Don't say I didn't try to tell you. And if you meet Tig…" He bit his lip, and the look of fear that crept across his face made Adam shiver. "Don't say I _tried_…"


	3. Chapter 3

**THE STANDOFF**

**A/N: I'm trying to steer clear of major spoilers for Flash Pop, just in case some people haven't seen it yet, which is why I have refrained from naming the killer in the first part of this chapter.**

**-x0x-**

**Chapter Three**

"I have two theories. Want to hear them?" Jo Danville's voice announced cheerfully.

Mac looked up with mild astonishment. When had she entered his office? It was rare for anyone to catch him off guard like that. "Go on."

"Either your meeting with Sinclair went just about as well as you expected… or you're building a fort out of case files."

"Now _there's_ an idea." The joke turned sour as he glared at the mountain of folders. "No big surprise - Sinclair's all about covering his ass, as usual."

"You mean damage control?"

"I _say_ what I mean, Jo; you know that." Mac sighed. "A killer in the lab means a complete overhaul of every piece of evidence they handled. It's a monumental task; working backwards when we're already stretched to the limit with our current cases." His anger was fuelled by an overwhelming sense of betrayal; a sick feeling that had been lodged in his gut for days. Jo's sympathetic expression said that she could take it – which only served to throw a little guilt into the mix. "Sorry," he said gruffly. "I'm just venting. Whether he wants to or not, Sinclair pushes my buttons – _and_ he knows it." A wry little grin curled his lips. "I guess I do the same to him."

"Oil and water," Jo suggested.

"Cops and politics," Mac countered. "This isn't the first time the department's been through something like this."

Casually, she slipped into a seat and reached for the nearest file. "You're prioritising urgent cases, right? That's what all these piles are for… It's a system I'm _very_ familiar with, as I'm sure you know by now. Want some help?"

Mac shrugged. "That depends. Want to be here all night?"

"If you buy me breakfast." Jo's grin was wicked but it served its purpose. Mac laughed out loud – he couldn't help it.

"Anyone ever tell you you're incorrigible?"

"Honey, I learned to spell that particular word before I was eight years old." She grinned. "Every teacher I had made me write it out a hundred times. 'Incorrigible'. I-n-c-o…"

Mac held up his hand in protest. "What about Ellie? I thought it was movie night."

"Tyler's home for the weekend." Jo shrugged. "I have a sneaking suspicion that movie night will be far more… exhilarating without me."

"No… what do they call them? Chick flicks?"

"Something like that…" Fishing her cell phone out of her pocket, she waved it in the air. "Just let me tell them the good news. Laugh, if you like, when you hear my hopeless attempt at censorship. And then," she continued brightly, "I'm ordering take-out. Paperwork may be the Devil's own waste of time but there's no earthly reason why we can't have _some_ fun this evening…"

-x0x-

"That's a very odd expression," Don Flack observed, watching Adam weave his way back through the unrelenting crowd.

"Wh's'at?" Danny was steadily making _his_ way to the bottom of his glass.

"Ross. Headin' over here. Lookin' kinda freaked."

The last of the beer slipped down Danny's throat and he smacked his lips with great satisfaction. "Isn't that, like, his default expression? You know, his 'Mac' face?" Straightening up, he glanced behind him, just in case.

Don sniggered. "You may be right," he admitted, slapping his friend on the back. "And while we're on the subject - _no_. Mac didn't just walk through the door 'cause you said his name out loud. Ask me, you've been spendin' too _much_ time around…"

"Hey, guys!" Adam said breathlessly, reaching their table at last.

"Hey," both men replied, with the innocence of angels.

Adam stared at them suspiciously. "Wait - were you just talking about me? I can tell, you know. Danny always gets this funny twitch, right in the corner of his left…"

"_Adam_." Don's interruption was smooth yet firm. "What's up? You look like you just saw a ghost or somethin'."

"If _I_ was a ghost," Danny muttered to himself, looking slighted, "no way I'd be hauntin' the men's room of some old bar…"

"No ghost. At least…" Adam paused and frowned as he considered. "I don't think so. No, see, there was this guy – he was big, _really_ big, like a giant – and he told me… Well, no, let me get this right. First I helped him dry his sweater and _then_ he…"

Don was starting to lose his patience. A beer-buzz could soften many irritating things but clearly not the ramblings of Adam Ross. "Okay, stop." He rubbed his temples with his fingertips. "Now I'm good. So, what did the big guy tell you?"

"He told me to leave."

"Adam, what did you _do_?" Danny set down his empty glass with some regret and folded his arms as he stared at his friend.

"I did nothing_._ It wasn't like that, okay? Stop makin' assumptions and listen to me, _please_. Something's wrong. Flack, you believe me, don't you?"

"Hard to say, when you haven't really told us anything. Calm down and start again. Pretend you're reporting to Mac."

"Yeah, like that's gonna help," Danny muttered – yet, oddly, it did.

"If Mac was standing right here," Adam said with sudden dignity, "he'd tell me to trust my gut. I'm not stupid, Danny. I know when I'm being had… well, you know, mostly." He gave a sheepish grin. "But I'm telling you now, that guy was on the level. He was scared to death of… Look, there he is!" Adam's voice dropped to an urgent whisper and his eyes took on a shifty look as he tried to indicate his target without being obvious.

No need.

The man walking out of the men's room was head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd. Flack fought the urge to goggle at him, open-mouthed. "That's the guy?" he hissed. _If Mac was standing right here…_ "Why'd he tell you to leave, Adam? What did he say? Tell me word for word."

To Adam's credit, he didn't revel in the moment. Instead, with a frown of concentration, he told them the full story, trying to remember every detail of his strange encounter. Flack listened carefully, one eye still on the giant, who was making his way towards the bar.

"You really think he's dangerous?" Danny muttered when Adam had finished.

"Only if he steps on someone," Flack said, noting Adam's sudden look of disappointment as he did so.

"Then you don't believe me."

"That's not what I said. Take a look at his companions."

The giant had reached his destination by now and was already deep in conversation with a sharp-faced man whose body language showed that he was clearly dominant over his friend – _no,_ Flack thought, as he paused to compare their tell-tale mops of curly brown hair, identical down to the tufts sticking out from behind their ears. _Not his friend. _No question, these two were related - unlike the third man, a twitchy little creep who clearly thought that he was God's gift to women, since he was currently trying – and failing – to flirt with the unlucky barmaid, Selena.

"You think one of those is Tig?" Adam said nervously.

"I do," Flack replied.

"You think they're gonna try somethin'? _Here?_ On a night like this? That's insane." Danny's tone was full of disbelief but his eyes mirrored Flack's own sense of great unease.

"They do look dumb enough," the detective admitted slowly.

Adam was twisting his fingers together. "You mean like a robbery?" he whispered. "Okay, but what should we do? Call the cops?"

"Adam, we _are _the cops," Danny said solemnly.

"Oh. Okay…" Chastened, he fell silent. Flack watched him closely.

"Adam," he said with false conviction, "I have a plan. But first – I need you to do exactly what I tell you."

"Of course." The younger man straightened up and made a visible effort to push his fear aside – just as Flack had intended.

"Head for the door, right now. Take a drink with you and hang around, looking casual, if you can. When… _if_ those guys make a move and it all goes bad, your job is to get as many people out as possible before they notice. Then get out yourself and go straight for the cops. The _other_ cops." Flack gave a tight, encouraging smile. "Think you can do that?"

"Of course I can. Um… what'll you be doing?"

"Oh," Flack said airily, "I think you'll know it when you see it."

-x0x-

Once more, Adam pushed his way through the heaving crowd. All around him, glasses clinked and loud conversations filled the air, turning words into white noise that had no meaning whatsoever. The effect was quite disturbing and his tired brain rebelled. _I'm in a nightmare,_ he thought. _I wish I could just wake up._

_You can do better than that,_ said a reasonable voice in his head. _You can walk out the door right now. What's stopping you?_

"Oh, shut up," Adam mumbled. A tipsy woman in a bright red dress turned to stare at him and he realised that he had spoken out loud. Turning a brilliant shade of crimson that rivalled her outfit, he plunged through a party of business men in high-end suits and left her behind. Leaving the bar itself, however – that was out of the question. Danny and Flack were counting on him. "I'm no coward," he breathed.

His path to the door took him right by the giant and his shifty-looking friends. Adam tried not to look at them – he didn't want to spook them, after all – but as he passed within an inch of the trio, herded that way by the jostling crowd, he could feel the eyes of the giant upon him.

_Stop it,_ he willed the man silently. _Please, just stop..._

"What you starin' at?" said a hard voice, full of deep suspicion.

"Nothin', Tig," said the giant hastily.

"You make me nervous when you stare like that. Marvin, you ain't gonna make me wish I'd left you out of this, now, are you?"

The giant's voice dropped to a murmur. "No, Tig," he said in a grovelling manner that made Adam feel quite sick.

Pretending to study the bottles lined up on the wall behind the bar, he risked a glance in their direction. Marvin's big round face was pale and he looked as though he might burst into tears at any moment. Strangely, Adam felt sorry for him. In his pity, he paused.

Tig's head swivelled. For one split second, he held Adam's gaze before pulling away with a sneer.

Adam had never felt so glad to be insignificant in his whole life.

Moving away from the bar just as soon as the crowd released him, he stationed himself by a handy coat rack near the door and waited to see what it was that Flack and Danny planned to do.


	4. Chapter 4

**THE STANDOFF**

**Chapter Four**

Marvin was very confused.

He watched the man secretly, narrowing his eyes and peering sideways. He thought that he was being careful but his brother was no fool.

"_Now_ what's up with you?" Tig said, with a less-than-subtle note of exasperation.

Marvin didn't trust himself to speak. Any attempt at a verbal explanation would only end in disaster. Thinking quickly – for him – he reached up and scratched his nose vigorously, as though he had an itch.

Tig looked as though he had an itch as well, only he couldn't scratch it. He curled his right hand into a fist, then blew out a deep sigh and flexed his fingers again. With a shake of his head, he turned back to his whisky, which was little more than a puddle in the bottom of his glass by now.

The time was near. _It _was going to happen very soon – and yet the kind man was still hovering by the door. Why wouldn't he leave? _I warned him, _Marvin thought urgently, wishing that thoughts could simply fly from one person to another. That way he could force the man to leave before it was too late.

Nearby, Niall was still talking to the barmaid. Marvin envied him his confidence. Pretty girls made him feel so happy but they also tied his tongue in knots, with their scornful eyes and their knowing smiles. This one looked just like his mother. She had died soon after Marvin was born, but he used to look at her photograph, before Tig took it and locked it away in the old tin box he kept beneath his balled-up socks. "For safekeeping," his brother had said, and Marvin had nodded, although he could not for the life of him understand what someone else might want with an old, grey photograph. It was just so… personal. He held on to a vague hope that one day, perhaps, if he was _very_ good and asked very nicely… well, maybe then Tig would let him look at it again. Until then, he would have to rely on his memory, poor as it was. He _thought_ the barmaid looked like her. Maybe that was wishful thinking.

A space opened up at the bar next to Niall and a tall, dark-haired man slipped into it. He had nice blue eyes and a friendly grin, which he turned on the barmaid. She moved to serve him with a look of deep relief on her perfect face. "Can I help you?"

"Selena, right?" The smiling man was good; even better than Niall, it seemed. Marvin watched with interest. Maybe he could pick up a few tips. Niall watched too, a red flush rising up the back of his neck from his shirt collar to his hairline. The smiling man couldn't see it, but Marvin could. All the same, he guessed the man knew what he had just done. There was a twinkle in his eye as the barmaid smiled back, blanking Niall entirely. "I'll take a beer. And one for yourself, okay? Looks like you're havin'…" He gave Niall the briefest of glances. "…A difficult evening?"

"Oh, it's not so bad. In fact, that's the second drink I've been offered in the last half hour. _Some _people know how to treat a lady." She, too, glanced at Niall before her gaze slipped over to the kind man, who was still lurking near the coat rack in a nervous fashion, almost as though he wanted to ask it to dance but couldn't quite gather his courage. "_He_ told you my name, I suppose? I saw you both come in together."

_Oh,_ Marvin thought, with interest.

The tall man raised an eyebrow. Clearly, something had amused him. "Memorable, isn't he? Yeah, you got it; he's my informant. So," he added, leaning forwards. "How about that drink, Selena?"

Fluid as the beer that she was pouring, Selena filled two glasses. Sliding one of them across the bar, she let her fingers brush the man's outstretched hand. Even he was surprised by her boldness, though he tried to hide it. "Perfect," he said. "Thank you, Selena. So, you workin' all night or does a busy girl like you get a moment to herself now and then?"

Was Marvin imagining it, or did the tall man's eyes keep flicking back to Niall? Was he _trying_ to wind him up, for goodness sake? Marvin could have told him what a bad idea that was. Beside him, Tig watched the whole scene avidly, with the concentration of a snake.

Niall cleared his throat. "You know what?" he growled. When no one responded to his question, he repeated it, slamming his hand on the bar in frustration. "You know _what_?"

Several people around the bar stopped and stared for a second or two, before resuming their cheerful conversations.

"Sorry," the man said smoothly, letting his own hand rest beneath Selena's gentle touch. "Were you talkin' to me?"

"I was talkin' to _her_," Niall ground out, sliding down from the barstool. Sadly, the stool was so high, and he was so short that it made little difference. "We were havin' a private conversation."

The tall man stood up too and drew his hand away at last. "You were talkin', sure. But was she listening?"

"No," Selena put in firmly, folding her arms and glaring. "_She_ wasn't. Trying not to, anyway."

Niall was practically shaking by now, he was so wound up. In a heartbeat, Tig was at his side.

"Look now, what's goin' on here?" he said in a warning voice that should have told both Niall and the stranger all they needed to know. Tig wasn't asking for information. Niall's shoulders were tense but he dropped his head in submission and took a step back.

"Nothin' for you to be worryin' about, friend," said the tall man, who seemed to have some kind of death wish as far as Marvin could tell. Because he was going to be. Dead. In a matter of seconds. Tig's fingers strayed to his waistband and Marvin felt his own hands grow clammy with sweat. He was cold and scared, and wished that he had never agreed to come here.

"Look," Selena told them all warily, "we have a strict 'no fighting' policy here. I could throw you out."

"You could try." Swifter than one of Niall's cowboy heroes, Tig drew his gun – but the stranger was quick too and darted to the side. Before Marvin could even register what had happened, Tig's arm was halfway up his back and the gun was in the stranger's hand instead.

_How did he do that?_ Marvin thought, so amazed that he almost forgot to be frightened.

Tig howled obscenities, shocking the room into silence as he twisted in the stranger's iron grip, like a fish on a hook. Niall lunged forwards to help his friend, only to be halted by the muzzle of a gun pointing in his direction. It was a dangerous moment.

But what happened next was even more alarming.

-x0x-

Stuck in his lonely corner of the room, Adam wobbled on his tiptoes and tried to watch what was going on over by the bar, but it was difficult. The crowd was an ever-shifting wall that blocked his view, for the most part. Thankfully, Flack was tall enough that Adam could just make out his head. The detective seemed to be enjoying himself as he flirted outrageously with the barmaid, all the while baiting his real target. "_That's_ your plan?" Adam muttered with a mingled sense of awe and dismay. "Draw them out by _flirting_? Are you kidding me?"

And where was Danny all this time?

Adam scanned the room for any sign of his friend, but his head jerked back towards the bar when a hush fell over the crowd. Someone was cursing loudly and he guessed that the moment had come to a crisis. Don Flack could have that effect on people, sometimes. Adam longed to force his way back through the crowd and join the detective – be his back-up, however useless - but Flack had given him an order and he held to his post with grim determination.

Then the smoke alarm went off.

Adam knew – he _knew_ that this was Danny Messer and he understood the play that they had set in motion. Clear the room. Contain the bad guys. The restless crowd became a single entity and moved with purpose towards the nearest exit. All at once, it was Adam who found – no, who _placed_ himself centre stage with great trepidation as he stepped in front of the door and held up his trembling hands.

"Take it easy, okay?" he croaked.

"Get out of the way," said a bluff-looking business man, whose alcoholic aura was so thick around him that it was almost visible. Adam coughed and swallowed. Then he tried again.

This time, his voice was firm as he channelled his absent boss and took control. "One at a time," he ordered the man, in a fine imitation of Mac Taylor's voice, "or somebody's going to get hurt."

The drunken business man gave him a nasty look. At the same time, the front row staggered forwards, driven from the rear by a panicking group of people who couldn't see, and didn't understand why no one was leaving. They pushed with such force that Adam was pinned against the glass, with no way to move or to open the door, and with an angry red face inches from his own. The man's breath was terrible. "Help!" Adam squeaked, but only the business man heard him.

_I'm going to go through the glass if they push any harder._ Adam braced himself for the fall, and the pain…

Then a shot rang out and a loud voice shouted, "Stop! Just stop!"

The voice did not belong to either Flack or Danny.

That was the first bad thing.

Like frightened animals, the crowd obeyed. Adam sucked in a welcome breath as the pressure on his chest was lifted and the business man fell back. Using the door to help him balance, he teetered on the very tips of his sneakers – and blinked in surprise.

The gun was in the hand of his new 'friend', Marvin.

Marvin's eyes were wide, like marbles, and his grip was tenuous. The weapon wavered.

"Give that to me. You don't want it," a cold voice suggested – and Marvin obeyed.

That was the second bad thing.

Marvin's sharp-eyed companion, Tig, climbed up onto the bar and stared at the crowd beneath him with all the misplaced triumph of a dictator after a violent coup. "Get down on the floor," he told them. "No one leaves here until _I_ say so."

_Flack, _Adam thought, full of horror, as everyone dropped to their knees around him. _Where's Flack? _He could no longer see the detective – and that was the worst thing of all, until he looked back up and found that the gun was now levelled at _him_.

"Are you deaf?" said Tig, with false politeness.

"No," Adam mumbled. "I'm sorry, okay?" His legs were shaking but they would not let him drop. He clung to the frozen glass behind him with his fingertips. This was a nightmare – and where were his friends?

"Bring him here," Tig told Marvin. "No – wait!" he continued as the giant moved to obey. "Fetch a chair."

A chair?

There were eyes upon him; wary, frightened eyes. He was the centre of everyone's attention right now and he wished with all his heart that he really could slip right through the glass and vanish.

"Here you go, Tig," said the giant, as though he were bringing the man a gift. He held up a wooden chair, tiny in his massive grip.

"Here you go." Tig nodded, turning the phrase upon Adam. "You like that door so much, you can guard it for me. With your life," he added, smiling like a predator, his sharp eyes focussed on his prey. "Tie him to it."

Marvin's jaw was slack. He did not move, but looked from one man to the other in confusion. Adam saw the shaking of his hands and pitied him.

_You tried to warn me._

"It's okay," he told the giant quietly. "Just do it."

Tig snorted in derision. "I give the orders here," he announced, moving the gun in a wide arc and letting it point towards one random person after another. "Fish in a barrel," he murmured. Every little squeak of horror seemed to bring him greater satisfaction.

"Oh, for God's sake, I'll do it," said the rat-faced man who stood below him. Shouldering past Marvin, he snatched the chair away. "Move!" he told the crowd, and they shuffled aside to make a clear path to the door. Rat-face dragged the chair along behind him, unbuckling his belt as he did so.

An old familiar fear brought Adam to his knees at last.

"Too late," Rat-face told him roughly, hauling him up and depositing him on the hard seat, right in front of the glass. "Hands behind your back."

When Adam failed to obey, Rat-face wrenched his right arm backwards, followed by his left, and lashed them together firmly, looping the belt through the back of the chair as well. Discomfort would soon become pain, Adam knew, and he wriggled in his hateful bonds - until Rat-face slapped him, hard, across the left cheek. The blow was so severe that it almost knocked him sideways. Adam dropped his head and blinked away his tears. The world was watching, and he could not bear to let them see his shame. His right cheek flamed in sympathy.

By the time he looked up again, Rat-face had gone.

Adam bit his lip against the pain in his face and the dull ache which was already creeping up his arms. He stuck out his jaw and made himself focus on every single face in the crowd, one after the other, just as Tig had done. Hope still burned inside him – he wasn't alone here, he _knew _it. Yet, try as he might, he could not find Detective Flack.

And where, oh where was Danny?


	5. Chapter 5

**THE STANDOFF**

**Chapter Five**

Danny stared at the door in front of him and wondered how their plan could have gone wrong so quickly.

"I blame the beer," he thought gloomily.

The whole thing had seemed pretty simple, back when Don was explaining it. They had even played a quick game of 'Rock, paper, scissors' to decide who would keep an eye on the dodgy trio at the bar and who would set off the alarm. Danny had lost – well and truly. "I only hope Don's had more luck," he told the door with feeling. "Trapped like a rat. How embarrassing."

_I'm not laughing,_ Lindsay said, inside his head.

"Not my fault," he argued. "What – you think I shoulda snuck behind the bar? Tripped the alarm in full view of everyone? Or maybe, you know, lit a fire so the wretched thing would go off automatically? I was usin' my head, okay? I found another way. Another alarm, in the corridor."

_But you took your eyes off Don._

Her voice was his own conscience. Trapped as he was, Danny had no idea what was going on back in the main room. "Don has Adam," he protested.

_Then why are you worrying?_

"No, you're right." Sarcasm was an unhealthy refuge but it made him feel better all the same. "Everythin's peachy. I'll just break my way outta here with…" He scanned the room. "A can of soda, maybe, or, you know, some paper towels… Danny Messer, middle name 'MacGyver'."

Lindsay shook her head and faded huffily away. _Locked up by a girl,_ was her parting comment – and it stung. He could still remember the feel of the cold, hard muzzle against the back of his neck, and the unexpected scent of jasmine…

…_Over his head, the alarm rang out, tearing the air with its urgency. Danny's fingers had only just dropped from the little red box on the wall. She was quick, this invisible girl. He could hear her breathing rapidly behind him._

"_Why did you do that?" she demanded. "Where's the fire?"_

"_You gotta get out. There's trouble." Said the cop to the girl with a gun, he joked to himself, taken by the irony._

_The gun jabbed into his neck and he stumbled against the wall, grinding his nose into the plaster. "C'n I turn around? 'S far more civilised, talkin' face t' face…"_

_Instead of replying, she dug her free hand into one of his pockets. He had to admire her skill as she lifted his wallet like a pro. "Good guess," he said._

"_I don't guess. I evaluate."_

"_Call it what you like." Danny managed to move his face back a little, making conversation easier. No doubt about it, Don Flack had gotten the easy end of this particular plan. We never reckoned there'd be more of them out back, he thought ruefully. This girl was clever, too – she could even be the mastermind of… well, whatever it was, exactly, that Adam had stumbled across. "You a thief?"_

"_You a cop?"_

"_Hey – you stole my wallet. You tell me."_

_She threw his ID on the floor, where he could see it. "Daniel Messer, Detective. You like trouble, Detective Messer?"_

"_Oh yeah, trouble and me, we're the best of buddies," he retorted. Sometimes, he just couldn't help himself. "You gonna let me go now? My friends know I'm back here." Wishful thinking, rather than the truth. He tried to make the lie sound convincing._

"_More cops? In the bar?"_

_How to answer that? I need more information, Danny sighed. "Look, you know my name," he offered, ignoring her question for the time being. "What's yours?"_

"_Nemesis."_

"_What, really?"_

"_Gullible, aren't you, Detective?" she muttered, full of scorn. _

_Through the half-open doorway that led to the bar, they could both hear the crowd reacting to the fire alarm. At least that part of the plan was successful, Danny thought smugly. He had a fleeting vision of poor Adam trying to marshal the frightened people into some kind of order as they tried to leave. _

_Good luck, buddy…_

"_Okay, so, Nemesis. That's the Greek chick who's big on revenge, right? You plannin' to kill me, or somethin'?" Please say no, he added silently._

"_I'd say that depends on you," she retorted. "Think you can swallow your cop pride and do as you're told, Detective Messer? Let's put it to the test, shall we? Step back from the wall – no, don't turn around. See that door at the end of the corridor? The one marked 'Supplies'…?"_

-x0x-

"Stay down."

It was barely a whisper, aimed directly at his ear, but it brought him to his senses; slowly, painfully… "Ow," mumbled Don, feeling tender in so many unexpected places. "Wha's goin' on?"

"Sssh!"

He opened his eyes and glared at the vaguely familiar face looming close to his own. He tried to say her name – _Selena_ – but as soon as his lips parted, a hand clamped down over his mouth. Choking back the word, he managed to bite his tongue instead. The taste of blood filled his mouth and made him want to gag but he swallowed it down and glared even harder.

Selena raised her eyebrows, waiting.

And then he began to remember.

_Oh,_ he thought, feeling like a fool. Lifting his own hand, he peeled her fingers away and mouthed an urgent question. _Where are we…?_

_Under the bar,_ she mouthed back. Sure enough, looking up beyond her pale face, he could see the heavy wooden counter, jutting out.

_How did I get here?_

_You flew._ There was nothing but truth in her eyes, and the last of his memory came rushing back; giant hands reaching out for him, tossing him over the bar as though he weighed no more than a sack of feathers…

Watching the grey floor rush up to meet him…

_Bang,_ he thought wearily. Head first was no way to travel.

And now they were trapped. No gun – he had dropped it mid-flight. No way to leave the building. No way to contact…

_Oh,_ Don sighed again, and gave Selena a wonky smile as he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. In return, she pointed to a spot above his head, on the underside of the counter. He turned and stared at the beautiful, bright red panic button.

_Did you push it?_

_Yes,_ she nodded.

Help was already on its way, then. And if Adam had managed to stick to the plan and leave the building, he could talk to the cops when they arrived. Get Mac on the case.

_If _Adam had managed to leave…

Above them, on the wooden counter, someone was walking up and down, their footsteps like the muffled sound of thunder that heralds a gathering storm. Aside from the endless ringing of the fire alarm, the rest of the room was unnervingly quiet.

With a growing sense of urgency, and a shaking hand, Don began to type a rapid message. _Mac. SOS. Leporello's. In the middle of a hostage crisis. Need you asap._ Then he set his cell to silent mode and waited for Mac to reply.

"Think I don't see you there?" said a sly voice behind him.

-x0x-

Trawling through case files was dull work. One half of Jo's brain stuck to the task with dogged determination. The other half broke free and wandered in search of a topic that was far more to her liking.

"So, Mac, I told you all about _my_ scintillating plans for the evening. How about you? Surely you had somewhere better to be? Someone better to be with?" she hinted slyly.

Mac raised his head and fixed her with _that_ look of his. "Better than you?"

She pouted. "Oh, come now, you know what I'm asking. Mac, you went on a _date_. I want details."

"Get used to disappointment?" he suggested. Was that a twinkle in his eye? The man was infuriating sometimes – _which_ he knew. Jo's curiosity doubled in its intensity and she rallied herself for a second attack.

"Did you kiss her yet?"

Even she was taken aback by the strange new look that flashed across his face; defensive, startled. Trapped between anger and shock at her impudent question. Had she finally pushed too far? What was this fascination with his love life, anyway? What was she, fourteen years old? _Incorrigible, Josephine,_ she told herself angrily. _I..n..c..o…_ She glared at the file in her hand as though it were to blame, clenching it tightly, her fingers rigid. Guilt bore down on her, stealing Mac's form in her mind.

"Jo."

He drew her gaze back to his face with the sound of his voice – and he was smiling now, with ease.

"I think that's none of your business – don't you?" he told her quietly. It was a blatant admission; they both knew it. Jo felt a surge of happiness for him.

"Well," she said airily, "no more chit-chat. Let's get through this, shall we?" With a wicked smile, she checked her watch. "Nine o'clock. Means the night is still young, Mac Taylor." When his cell phone rattled on his desk, she gave a chuckle of anticipation. "Maybe Christine agrees…?"

He raised one eyebrow: _Really? Still?_

Then he read through the message, twice, and she could tell from the set of his jaw that any and all forms of joking were over. "Trouble?" she asked him warily, hating the terrible sense of foreboding. She needed to _know_, right now.

Mac nodded. "Trouble," he echoed.

-x0x-

They hauled him to his feet and dragged him out from behind the bar, Selena tagging along behind as though she didn't quite know what to do with herself. Don was shocked to find that he was still unsteady. Without his captors' grip on either side, he felt sure that he would have dropped like a stone. There was a ball of pain like a knot in his skull that told him just how hard he must have hit the floor after his journey through the air. "Thanks for the ride," he said woozily, glaring at the giant, who held his right arm in a fist so large it could have circled both of his wrists together, like a rope.

At least the giant had the grace to look ashamed. His friends were far more cocky. Feeling somewhat like a prize on show, Don took in the silent crowd seated before him and marvelled at the neat way the three men had gained control of everyone there with a single gun. The gun that Don had taken from them. _Nice job, hero,_ he told himself bitterly. _Next time, maybe, Adam Ross should call the shots. Even he could do better than this…_

Adam.

Without a word, he captured Don's attention – that lonely figure seated in front of the door with his head bent low and his arms wrenched out of sight behind his back. One more broken piece of their plan.

"Hey," Don said, risking everything. The gun was levelled in his direction but he didn't care. He couldn't bear the sorry sight of Adam in despair.

And then his friend looked up.

The set of his jaw was stubborn. There was a fire in his blue eyes that said he was not beaten yet. But the bright red mark across his face made Don's stomach twist in fury.

"Flack," Adam cried out, hoarse with relief. "You're okay."

"Yeah, sure," Don mumbled, feeling fairly doubtful on that score himself.

The man with the gun - Tig, no doubt - cleared his throat. "Sweet reunion," he said, and the gleam in his eye told Don what a big mistake it had been to confirm his connection with Adam. "He's fine; you're fine. Everyone's fine, and havin' a memorable evening, okay? Now, I hate to shoot and run when we're havin' such fun – but I bet you're all burnin' to know why we're here, right? Meanin' it's time we got down to business…"

-x0x-

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who is following this story, and to those who have left a review. I'm so glad you're enjoying it!**


	6. Chapter 6

**THE STANDOFF**

**Chapter Six**

"'Do not go gentle into that good night,'" Sid Hammerback quoted softly.

Lindsay was used to the odd remarks that punctuated Sid's conversation on a regular basis. "That's from a poem," she said, trying hard to place it. A distant echo drew her back to a warm classroom, far away and long ago, when life was full of hope and death seemed… irrelevant, somehow. Happy times – _but I'm happier now,_ she reminded herself, glancing up at her friend with a smile. _Is that odd?_

"One of my favourites – and very apropos, I thought." He gestured to the body that lay between them, on the table. "It's by Dylan Thomas – who always looks like Richard Burton in my mind's eye, for some reason. Actually, so does our John Doe… aside from the gaping head wound." Sid chuckled, and then caught sight of Lindsay's latest expression. "But I digress. And you didn't come here for poetry. Or Richard Burton, for that matter."

"No," she told him fondly, "I came here for you. Besides, you're right – he _does_ look full of rage, as though he fought Death all the way. Any defensive wounds?"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Sid shook his head. "Not the regular kind, anyway. There _is _a curious imprint on his palm – see here, with a mark like a crown in the middle - suggesting he gripped something tightly in the moments before he died. A makeshift weapon, perhaps? Snatched up in the heat of the moment and left behind when the body was dumped? He must have dropped it near the end, though, or there would have been signs of cadaveric spasm." To demonstrate, he raised the victim's hand and let it dangle from his fingers, like a ghoulish puppeteer. As he laid it down again with care, his eyes became shifty. "Lindsay…?" he ventured, and she could sense another change of topic coming on. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course you can." Lindsay stepped away from the body, knowing he would follow. "Ask me anything, Sid. What's the matter?"

Now his expression was downright guilty. "If you knew something about a person… not a secret, exactly; they never said that… and you sensed that they were hiding it… That really they ought to talk about it, but they hadn't told their friends. Or their boss, you know…?"

"Would it help if I try to guess?" said Lindsay carefully. Sorting through the usual suspects, she settled upon the most likely candidate. Stubborn, secretive, not quite himself at the moment… "You mean Adam, don't you?"

"Oh!" Sid exclaimed, with great relief. "Then he told you too."

"That Jessica Drake was a friend of his? Yes, he told us all." _Most emphatically,_ Lindsay remembered. That little scene in the Conference Room had brought an unexpected lump to her throat at the time, as she watched Adam rise to his feet and walk away in silence. Walk away from his friends, who should have seen that he was hurting too.

"No." Sid shook his head, much to Lindsay's surprise. "It isn't that. Look, I'll start at the beginning. Maybe you didn't know this either, but Adam's been – well, I guess _practising_ is the only word for it. Being around the victims, since he wants to be a proper CSI."

"You mean he visits you?"

"And talks to me, and learns from me… he's a very quick study, you know. At first, I assumed Mac had sent him down here but then, of course, I realised Mac would have had the courtesy to ask me first. Not that Adam didn't ask - in a roundabout way." Sid gave a sheepish grin. "And yes, I do see the irony of that. Anyhow, after his week in Arizona…"

"Wait - he went to _Arizona_? I thought he'd gone off to one of his crazy conventions."

_Ah,_ said the look on Sid's face. "After _that_," he continued pointedly, "there was a noticeable difference in his behaviour. He came down here on schedule, quiet as a mouse, to continue his lessons but… Lindsay, when he saw the body on the table, he was shaking. Nothing I said could induce him to touch it. He's never been like that before. I mean, you know, he was nervous to begin with – that's understandable; everyone is. Lately, though, he was developing what I can only describe as a gentle, considerate way with the dead. Very pleasing. Respect, that's the key…"

"But not this time?" Lindsay prompted. "Are you sure it wasn't because of the murder?"

"Very sure. This was two whole days before poor Jessica came to my table." Sid shook his head regretfully. "Such a lovely girl. And he was friends with her? So sad…"

Working her way through his story, Lindsay was starting to understand, but she asked the question anyway. "Then what…?"

"Lindsay, I really think you ought to know that Adam's mother passed away two weeks ago."

-x0x-

And just like that, Pandora's Box was open. Lindsay knew Adam's secret but the knowledge was tainted with guilt. Pacing up and down the corridor, she could not bring herself to reach her destination. Every time she drew near, indecision made her pull away.

_Mac knows, _she told herself firmly. _He has to. _ And yet…

And yet, if he did know the true cause of Adam's subdued behaviour and the reason for those God-awful circles around his eyes, would he really have knocked him back the way he did that day, in front of the whole team?

No. Not Mac Taylor. Here was a man who understood grief and its consequences, just as she did. Angered and frustrated though he was by Jessica's murder - a murder so close to home that it was personal too - he would still have found another way to get his point across, of that she was absolutely certain.

"Which means he doesn't know. But do I have the right to tell him?" Lindsay shook her head, unable to find a solution that didn't involve some kind of betrayal. "Ugh," she groaned in despair, startling a random lab tech who was passing by. "Of all the pig-headed, stubborn, ridiculous men I've ever met, Adam Ross, you are truly the most exasperating! Next to you, Mac Taylor is an open book. I mean, really – you couldn't have told us? Just one of us? You had to make Sid Hammerback wheedle it out of you? Yes, and what did _I_ do?" she argued, playing Devil's Advocate with herself. "Did I ask you what the matter was? Did I pin you in a corner till you told me? No – I sent you out for a night of beer and mayhem with my unsuspecting husband…"

Her argument had carried her right to the door of Mac's office. She stared at her boss through the glass – and he waved her in abruptly.

Still no closer to a decision, she had to obey.

-x0x-

"Don's in trouble," Mac said grimly, certain that Lindsay could take his abrupt explanation, and therefore doubly shocked by the flush that rose to her cheeks. Jo saw it too, and quickly divined the cause.

"Danny's with him, isn't he?"

"Yes, he is," Lindsay nodded. "So's Adam. What's happening, Mac?"

He showed her the text and his own reply, still hanging there, unanswered: _On my way. Tell me more._ Don's lack of response made him very uneasy.

"Did you call it in?" Lindsay quizzed him, breathless in her urgency.

He felt for her, but did not spare her. He knew the truth was what she longed to hear right now, not clichéd reassurances. _Don't worry… It'll be okay… Probably just some drunken misunderstanding…_ "A couple of squad cars are on their way already, and a fire truck, apparently. I let them know Don was our source inside the bar. Jo and I were just leaving - you'll want to come with us." It wasn't a question. Lindsay flashed him a look of pure gratitude.

"Boy's night out?" Jo queried, linking arms with her colleague. Mac wished that he could find comfort in such things so readily.

"I guess you could call it that. It was my idea… Mac, I need to tell you something…"

There was a hesitant quality to Lindsay's voice that left him wondering, but now was not the time for a discussion. "Is it urgent?" he said, not unkindly. When she shook her head, he gave a quiet order, knowing she would understand the reason. "Save it. You can tell me in the car."

-x0x-

Marvin liked the room much better now that everyone was sitting down.

_I did that,_ he thought proudly. _Saved my brother. Fired the gun._

Fired a _gun!_ He still couldn't quite believe it. Much to his surprise, the feel of so much power in his hands had been exciting, like the moment back in Junior High when he finally realised there were advantages to being the over-sized kid in the schoolyard. That was also the day when his classmates stopped teasing him – and he didn't really have to hurt them much to make it happen; not after he threw Billy Jay clear over the nearest wall. Tig had been excited too, when the gossip reached him. "We'll go far, you an' me," he said, reaching up to slap his younger brother on the back. Tig was in charge and always had been, ever since Marvin was born.

_But I saved him. _Marvin was certain of that. He tightened his grip on the arm of the smiling man, who had flown across the bar so sweetly. _That was a good throw…_

"Hey," the man grumbled, under his breath. "I'd like to get my arm back in one piece, if it's all the same to you, big guy."

Marvin relented. That was the other side of him, the one that made Tig so frustrated. The soft side that could think itself into the skin of other people and feel sorry for them.

"Okay," he said, and let go altogether. Unluckily, Niall wasn't ready to take the strain.

The man slid down to the floor, rolling sideways like a bag of apples.

"Bad decision," he sighed to the ceiling.

Like an actor on stage who is plagued by a noisy audience, Tig glared down at the three of them. Marvin and Niall looked penitent, unlike the smiling man, who just looked sick.

"Sorry, Tig," Marvin said, shuffling his feet. All at once, he was horribly, painfully conscious that he was on display in front of a hostile crowd. They were seated, yes, but their eyes were free to speak. _They hate me,_ he thought, with an uncontrollable whimper. Glancing up, he caught sight of the kind man on the chair in front of the door. _His_ eyes were staring at Marvin too, but they weren't angry.

They were sad; so deeply sad that Marvin felt it in his own heart, though he didn't know quite what to do with it, or how to make it go away.

Clearly, Tig was satisfied by Marvin's muttered apology. He raised the gun, clutching it tightly as though he were drawing its power right into his veins. The power to control. "I think it's time we got to know each other," he told his captive audience. "You're gonna introduce yourselves, and I'm gonna make a decision."

"What kind of decision?" The voice from the back of the room was squeaky, like a mouse that can't help poking its nose through a hole to see what kind of terror is lurking on the other side.

"Life or death," was the callous reply. At the same time, the hateful ringing of the fire alarm finally shuddered to a halt. Perhaps it felt the dreadful tension and wanted nothing more to do with it. "I'm lookin' for Adler's crew. They come here, right? Work out of this bar? Must be someone who knows them. Maybe they're all in the room _right now_. I hope so…" Tig's eyes were gleaming, cat-like. "Here's something you should know. I can spot a liar at a hundred paces - tell them it's so," he appealed to his brother.

Warily, Marvin nodded.

"That's it. Now, I got questions and you're gonna answer them, every last one of you - and if I think you're lying…" With a shrug that was far from nonchalant, he levelled the gun at the man in the chair, sitting upright where everyone could see him. "Bang!" he shouted, and the kind man flinched as though he had truly been hit. "Guess what?" Tig told him smugly. "I'm startin' with you."

-x0x-

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter!**

**For those of you who have read 'Out There' - I know I've used Dylan Thomas before, but the quote was just so perfect for the scene, I couldn't help using him again…**


	7. Chapter 7

**THE STANDOFF**

**Chapter Seven**

A cool, dispassionate part of Adam's brain stared at Tig and saw how utterly ridiculous he looked, parading up and down the bar like a two-bit showman trying to hustle the crowd at a county fair.

Trouble was, this showman had a loaded gun – and the rest of Adam's brain couldn't stop freaking out about that.

Over the years, he had seen so many lives torn apart by a single bullet. Each violent death was a tiny, invisible wound to his own soft heart; the curse of empathy. Meanwhile, Tig's body language hinted that he had no such problem. Death was his to play with and the game filled him with glee. It was only a matter of time…

"…Are you deaf?"

Adam blinked in confusion and pulled his wandering thoughts back together. Tig was glaring – not a pretty sight. "Am I… what?"

"Deaf? Or just plain stupid? I asked you a question."

"Okay..." Adam's vision blurred until suddenly there were _two_ guns pointing at him. Blinking fiercely, he tried to save himself. "Could you repeat…?"

"What's your _name,_ dummy?"

It was the nervous chuckle from somewhere in the crowd that hurt the most, jolting him back to his senses. "I'm Adam," he said, with unexpected dignity.

"Adam. Adam what? Who are you? What do you do with yourself when you're not guardin' doorways?"

_I spend my life making sure jerks like you go to jail,_ was the answer he _almost _gave. "Adam Ross. I'm a scientist."

"Figures," Rat-face sneered, earning a scowl of his very own from Tig. Marvin, on the other hand, was clearly impressed.

"You blow things up?" he said eagerly.

"Sometimes," Adam admitted, speaking only to him and smiling, just a little. "Not always on purpose."

"Geek." Tig made the word an expletive.

_And proud to be._ Adam squared his chest; a difficult task in his uncomfortable position. "Are you satisfied? I've never been here before, okay? I'm not the one you're looking for." That sounded terribly selfish. Aware of the silent crowd around him, he swallowed and persevered. "You're holding a whole bunch of innocent people hostage. There _has_ to be a better way to find this Adler, don't you think?"

"Know what? I think _you_ think you're better than me, Mister Scientist." Having mangled the English language to suit his purpose, Tig leapt down from the bar, landing nimbly on both feet, and marched across the room to Adam. A path opened up for him all the way. No one wanted to claim his attention if they could avoid it, no matter how sorry they felt for his current victim.

Tig pressed the muzzle of his gun to Adam's forehead. "You wanna know if I'm serious here?"

Courage trickled from his pores, deserting him. He closed his eyes, too scared to watch the world fly apart, if it should really come to that. "Um, no thanks," he croaked. "I believe you."

"_Bang!_" Tig whispered, right in his ear. The shudder that followed was cold and intense – the shadow of Death passing through him – but the gun never fired and when Adam opened his eyes again, he saw that Tig was smirking at him, pleased to see him so afraid. "You pass the test – for now, Mister Scientist."

Adam was truly ashamed of his relief as Tig moved on.

-x0x-

For what felt like the umpteenth time, Danny threw himself against the unyielding door and groaned as his shoulder protested.

"Oh, come _on_!" he sighed and whacked it with the toe of his boot for good measure. The door didn't budge – no surprises there – and sadly, the petulant act failed to give him any satisfaction. "I need a run up," he complained. In this tight little space, he simply couldn't muster the force that he needed by standing still. There wasn't room to swing a cat, never mind a full-on kick, and his body-slam was pitiful. "I feel like a weakling. Flack would laugh his ass off if he could see me right now."

Assuming Flack was in any position to laugh…

Things were bad; no question about it. Psycho Chick, whoever she was, had taken his cell phone as well as his wallet and badge. He had no way of calling for help and no way of leaving the storeroom. He was, in effect, completely useless.

And where were his friends? The fact that they hadn't come looking for him sent his fevered imagination into overdrive. He pictured Adam trampled by the crowd… Flack held at gunpoint… Both men lying in a bloody, broken heap… _I could have sworn I heard a shot back there…_

"And who's to say it wasn't Flack that fired the gun?" he argued, fighting fear with optimism. Saying the words out loud made them almost believable. _Almost._

Then the fire alarm sputtered and died.

Was it over?

Danny pressed his ear against the wood and tried to pick up any sound at all that would give him a clue as to what was going on outside – but the whole place was eerily silent, apart from the distant rise and fall of a muffled voice, and a heavy thump-thump-thump that, much to Danny's embarrassment, came from his own chest.

"Gonna give yourself a heart attack," he murmured, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly to calm himself down. "C'mon now, Messer. You gotta focus, man. Stop actin' like a jerk and use the brains God gave you." Safe in the dark, he gave a guilty chuckle. "You think if Mac Taylor was trapped in here, he'd be pounding away on the door like a lunatic? No…" All at once, Danny froze. "He wouldn't. _Because, _you nut, he wouldn't want the wrong person settin' him free. Like a perp with a gun who just happened to follow the noise all the way to your hidey-hole. _Jackass!_"

Thinking of Mac made him feel, for a moment, as though the boss was standing right beside him with _that_ look upon his face. The one that said: _Think harder. You're missing something vital…_

Chastised by a figment of his own imagination, Danny turned and stared at the random array of supplies; some in boxes (empty bottles, mostly), some ranged neatly on the wooden unit – everything from lemons through ladles to costly liqueur. And then he saw another 'l' that made him smile; a plastic bag full of laminated beer mats, cheaply turned out as a promotion for some penny ante beer company, and stashed away unwanted and untouched by the owner of Leporello's Bar.

"Gotcha!" he crowed. "Score a point for the Messers." Time to make use of a skill that Louie, his brother, had taught him long ago. Nemesis may have held on to Danny's wallet but the plastic mats were almost a dead ringer for, say, a library card. And thirteen year-old Louie Messer had only one use for _his_ library card…

Danny grabbed a mat and studied his enemy, the door. Lucky break number one: there was a thin strip of light all around it, which meant that it wasn't set deep in the frame. Lucky break number two: the lock was a classic spring bolt, easy to pick if you had your wits about you. "Okay," he told himself, spitting on his hands and rubbing them together. "Keep it steady – and hope for a hat trick." If the catch was sloping away from him, the beer mat would be useless and he would need to search for a different kind of tool. If the catch sloped towards him…

He slipped the card into the crack near the handle and started to bend it, feeling his way by instinct. "One Mississippi," he counted. "Two Mississippi… three… four…"

_Click!_

The catch leapt back. Freedom was his for the taking. "_Oh _yeah! MacGyver's got nothin' on me," Danny smirked, as he shoved the mat into his pocket (a visual aid, for when he told this story later on to his wife and daughter), rose up and opened the door of the storage room…

…Only to come face to face with a scowling, dark-haired woman who smelled of jasmine.

_Damn._

She was taller than him, he discovered, and well-muscled, which was disconcerting. Danny had built up a very different picture in his mind, and the truth set him back on his heels for a moment. Her bearing and her body language said that she was rattled but controlling it with an iron will. _Military background, maybe_? Perversely, he found himself wanting to break that control and see right through to the real person underneath. "Nemesis, I presume," he said coolly, studying the neat little pistol in her hand. A lady's piece, good for hiding in a purse or… well, _other_ places, but just as deadly as the more robust members of its family. "Don't tell me you were out here all along. What, you get some kinda kinky thrill from holdin' me prisoner?" He flashed his ring finger, wiggling it in front of her face with cocky bravado. "I'll have you know, I'm a married man."

"Don't flatter yourself, Detective." The frown grew even darker. "And keep your voice down."

Danny shook his head in disbelief. "You lock me up. You let me out. An' now you're tellin' me what to do?"

The pistol in her hand was steady as she gave him a meaningful look. No words were necessary. Danny made the universal gesture of defeat.

"Okay, yeah, I get that. You're the one with the gun; you make the rules. One question."

"Only one?"

"For the time bein'. You gonna tell me what's goin' on here? Straight out, no lyin'. You owe me that much, don't you think?"

"_Owe _you? Really?" Nemesis wasn't convinced. "Check your logic, Detective. It's flawed."

Danny narrowed his eyes. "I don't think so." His brain was working quickly and he thought he was starting to see the bigger picture. "You let me out 'cause you need my help. Those goons in the bar, they're a problem for both of us. I got friends in trouble - so have you, right? I'm a cop – you know the cops'll be comin' and you've been countin' odds. How am I doin' so far, would you say?"

She relaxed, imperceptibly. "Well, you're not a detective for nothing, I'll give you that much. Those 'goons', as you call them, have taken control. They don't seem very bright but they're armed."

"That's a bad thing," Danny agreed. "And the shot I heard?"

"Into the ceiling, thank God." Her sharp eyes were focussed; intelligent. "Why? Are your guys armed as well?"

_Don't I wish?_ "No – but Don went fishin' for a gun. If _he_ ain't got it…"

"Dark hair? Kind of good looking? I reckon he found himself caught by his own fishing hook." Nemesis inched along the corridor, beckoning with her pistol. "No more talking," she whispered. "See for yourself. It's much easier." Danny followed, half afraid, half desperate to _know_.

The door to the main bar was open, just a crack. He peered through - and bit right into his lip to keep from groaning.

_Not good._

No, scratch that. 'Not good' was an understatement of ridiculous proportions.

-x0x-

Jo had elected to drive them to the scene and nothing would dissuade her. Her driving style, like her personality, was bold and confident. She steered the Avalanche through the snow-lined streets of Manhattan with all the skill and the verve of a native New York cabbie.

Rather than suggesting that she take it easy, Mac found himself wishing she would go even faster. All the same, her aggressive over-taking had its hairy moments. He tried to distract himself.

"So, you… wanted to tell… me something?" The words were shaken out of him in pieces. Checking the rear-view mirror, he could see that Lindsay was clinging to the back of his seat for dear life. She nodded grimly.

"Yes – about Adam."

Adam? That was surprising. And yet, when he paused to think about it… Mac's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Adam put on a good show these days, maintaining his usual banter whilst working more hours than anyone else in the lab. Mac had suspected he wanted to prove himself as a wannabe CSI. But 'show' was exactly the right word, wasn't it? _Damn, _he thought. _Right in front of my face, and I missed it._ "Go on."

As before, Lindsay faltered – and just at that moment, Mac's cell began to ring. He peered at the screen.

"It's Danny," he said, in astonishment.

Lindsay let out a single gasp, so sharp that it was painful to hear. Then she pressed her lips together. Mac admired her self-control.

Jo was less than stoic. "Answer it, Mac, for heaven's sake," she begged, impatient as always. "Don't keep us in suspense."

No need to be told. Mac's finger had already pressed the button and now he raised the cell to his ear, expecting – no, _hoping_ to hear Danny's bright, familiar voice.

"Detective Taylor?" said the woman on the other end.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "Where's Danny Messer?"

"He's here. In fact, he wants a word with you." The woman's voice was low and urgent. "Mind, now," he heard her say, as though to someone standing next to her. "Keep it short and clear. Don't waste time."

Mac swallowed. Was _this_ the hostage-taker? A woman? He could hear Lindsay breathing rapidly behind him, and see the look of consternation on Jo's face as she tried to split her attention between the busy streets and this strange new development.

"Boss? You there?"

"Danny! Yes, with Jo – and Lindsay. We're on our way to you right now."

"Lindsay…" Danny took a second just to savour the name. Like the woman, he kept his voice low.

"Tell me what's going on," Mac suggested, switching the cell to speaker mode so that everyone could hear. Lindsay gave him a tight nod of gratitude.

"That's why we're callin' you. Three guys have taken the bar, okay? They got one gun between them, far as we can tell, but that was enough. They're reckless and they're dumb, Mac, and they don't seem to care about anyone else but themselves. No tellin' what they might do if you push 'em the wrong way."

Mac took a deep breath. "Adam and Flack?" he said carefully.

"Stuck in the main room. Flack's down – not shot, but he still looks pretty sick." Danny's voice wavered, just for a second. "They've also got Adam in front of the door, all tied up, like some kinda human shield. I don't know what he did to deserve that, Mac, but I don't like it. He's on a chair, and the rest of the customers, they're on the floor, all spread out between the tables. Maybe thirty or so? Skinny Guy, he's holdin' court with the gun and a bunch o' random questions. Sounds like he's lookin' for somethin'… or some_one._"

"And your lady friend?"

"Is armed as well, but not on their side – so _she_ says," Danny added defiantly. "We're in a back room, okay, and we're waitin' for you guys to make your move. But she wants me to tell you, she's willin' to strike a deal if we promise to work together. She's got people in there too."

"And she's holding a gun on _you_? Whatever for?"

Mac could almost picture Danny's shrug as he replied. "She's a complicated lady."

The cell passed hands again, somewhat forcibly by the sound of it. "Time's up," said the woman. "You know this number, Detective Taylor. Call me when you reach the bar and we'll discuss terms, if you're willing. If not…" She let the sentence hang, with all its ominous implications, until the line went dead.


	8. Chapter 8

**THE STANDOFF**

**Chapter Eight**

Lying on the floor had its advantages.

True, a heavy metal band was jamming in Don's head and the ceiling lights were spinning in a psychedelic fashion - but still, he had always thought of himself as a 'glass-is-half-full' kind of guy, which meant he liked to try and find the bright side of every situation, no matter how messed up it happened to be on the surface.

In an effort to keep his mind from spinning with the lights, he began to make a list.

First of all, there was the lovely Selena. _I should've made that bet with Danny, _he thought regretfully as he flashed her a loopy smile. She sat beside him, holding his hand and her beautiful dark eyes were full of concern for his well-being.

Or was that fear?

He blinked in confusion. Okay, so maybe his judgement was more than a little skewed – not to mention his priorities – if he was actually putting his love life ahead of a hostage situation. "Pull yourself together, man," he mumbled, feeling sick to his stomach with guilt.

Selena glared at him pointedly. He took her silent reprimand with unusual meekness. To his great relief, no one else paid him any attention.

That was his second advantage.

Tig was strutting up and down the room, revelling in his power trip. He had already questioned poor Adam – who had held up surprisingly well under pressure – and now he was working his way through the seated crowd, some of whom were far too drunk to make much sense, and some of whom had been shocked into stone cold sobriety by the fire alarm and the initial gun shot. None of them appeared to be the mysterious 'Adler' that Tig was looking for. At least the search kept him occupied.

Mr. Flirty had no weapons, as far as Don could see, and neither did the giant (unless you counted his meaty fists). That was strange, and smacked of hasty planning, a lack of trust on Tig's behalf… or a limited number of brain cells between the group. All the same, these two thugs were the focus of Don's slightly fuzzy attention, since they were the ones who stood directly between him and any kind of immediate action. _Whatever that's likely to be, _he thought giddily.

Right now, they were watching Tig, which meant their backs were turned. No doubt they assumed that Don was out of it. _And maybe they're right,_ he admitted – but first and foremost he was a cop, and his duty, unlike his aching head, was perfectly clear. He had sworn to 'protect and serve' this city; to put the lives of every hostage in this room before his own. To take every chance that he had to end this charade without bloodshed, or worse, fatalities.

_Easy to say. Not so easy to do when you can't even stand 'cause the pain in your head won't let you…_

Outside, he knew, help was gathering. They had cut the sirens on approach, but the increase in foot-traffic up above the area steps meant his fellow cops were here already, and maybe the media too. A circus, in other words. He prayed that Mac had taken charge. There were so many ways this whole thing could go pear-shaped, and Don wasn't partial to any of them. _I like happy endings, _he thought fervently. If wishing could make it so… but wishing was passive, and passive meant useless. No matter how hard Don pushed himself, he simply couldn't marshal his thoughts into any kind of practical order. No brilliant plan was forthcoming; no possible action free from risk. The only thing that he could _do _right now was lie still, and keep on wishing, and wait for a clear opportunity.

Trouble was, patience had never been one of his virtues.

-x0x-

Marvin recognised the look on his brother's face. Tig was having fun. He seemed to be treating the whole situation like some kind of lethal game show in which he had taken the role of host. The rules were refreshingly simple: stand up and tell the truth, or lie and die.

_Lie and die. _ A good name for the show, Marvin thought, full of secret pride that he had come up with something clever for once in his life. He opened his mouth to share the joke – and closed it with a snap. _Don't interrupt,_ he told himself firmly. _It isn't the right time for laughing._

Tig's ability to spot a lie was frightening. He had practised for years on his family and friends, until he was perfect. The last time Marvin had ever lied to his brother, he had been five years old – and he still had the scar to prove it, shaped like a wishbone right there on his wrist. Wishbones were lucky; Marvin knew that, and he rubbed it now in secret, hoping for a miracle. He had no great desire to watch anyone get shot – and it seemed the 'contestants' were equally keen to preserve their own lives. Either that, he thought, or they were _very _good at lying.

Curious to see if he could spot the difference for himself, Marvin narrowed his eyes and studied the man who was currently standing in front of Tig; a greasy little man with gopher teeth and a shiny grey suit that was painfully tight, as though it had shrunk in the wash.

That was what he looked like on the surface – but what were the signs that Tig could see?

Was it the sweat dripping down his podgy cheeks? Was it the way he wrung his hands? Was it the nasal tone of his voice as he gave his name? Jerry Fuller – _Jerry, like the mouse._ Marvin grinned to himself, feeling confident. This man was no liar.

Tig slipped into the mocking game, one of his all-time favourites. "Jerry?" he whined, in a perfect imitation of the poor man. "Jerry? _Jerry?_" The more he repeated the name, the more ridiculous it sounded. You could do that with almost any word, Marvin knew. His own name, for example…

The man in the shiny suit held on to the last shreds of his dignity. "Yes, Jerry. What's wrong with that? It's short for Jeremy – my father's name."

"Who cares about your dumb old father?" Tig sneered. "I want to hear about _you. _ That's a terrible suit, Jerry Fuller. What is it you do in that terrible suit, with your terrible hair and your fat face, all day long?"

Marvin guessed that Tig was trying to rile the man on purpose. When people were cross or upset, they let secrets spill out by accident.

"I bet he's a no-good banker," Niall jeered, from the side-lines. Tig flashed him a furious look – _stay out of this._

"Well, I am," Jerry Fuller said meekly.

"Rich?" Tig demanded.

Jerry shrugged. "Not so much."

"I believe you. That ain't a rich guy's suit. That ain't _your_ suit, _Jerry._ Someone loaned it to you, didn't they? Or else you bought it second-hand."

"Yes," Jerry whispered.

"I knew it," Tig crowed. "I'm always right. Ever heard of Adler's crew?" He threw in the question so quickly that Marvin jumped and Jerry looked flustered.

"No… I… No, of course not."

Tig's body grew tense and his voice, when he spoke again, was downright nasty. "Oh, I think you need to do better than that, Mister Jeremy Fuller. Let's try it again. You know Adler?"

"I don't!" the poor man squeaked, his whole attention riveted on the gun. "I really don't. I only came here for a drink; to celebrate, you know, 'cause I got promoted. Please don't shoot me. I don't understand what's going on..."

Watching Jerry squirm like that was horrible. Marvin turned away before Tig could see that his eyes were brimming with tears. "I don't think I like this game," he moaned quietly, hugging himself for comfort as he rubbed and rubbed and _rubbed_ at the wishbone scar on his wrist. "I'm not going to watch it."

-x0x-

Adam's fingers felt wrong. Rat-face had lashed the belt far too tightly around his wrists – by accident? _No,_ Adam thought, _by design._ It wasn't… painful, exactly, but the stiffness of the leather and the way it cut into his skin made him worry. He twisted and pulled at his bonds but only succeeded in making them tighter. Slowly, the tingle he felt in his hands grew into a far more disturbing numbness and he imagined his fingers swelling like sausages. If they dropped off altogether, he thought in despair, would he feel it at all…?

"Stop."

The whisper was so gentle, Adam barely caught it.

"Stop that," the voice repeated. It sounded like a woman, but he wasn't sure.

"'Kay," he murmured obediently, letting his arms relax.

"Don't turn around," his invisible friend continued. "I'm going to help you. No one's looking – it's safe."

Adam gave a tiny nod and held his breath. The first tug on his bonds made him gasp, but he swallowed the sound in a hurry. The tingle returned to his fingers and this time it was so intense that it felt like a thousand needles stabbing him, over and over again, as the belt grew slack.

That was when he realised that Marvin the giant was staring straight at him.

_Please don't tell,_ Adam mouthed in horror, shaking his head. At his back, the twist and pull continued. All of a sudden, the belt dropped away and his hands were free; a blessed relief, in spite of the danger. He wove his clumsy fingers together and tried to pretend that nothing had changed. Marvin's mouth was hanging open. Adam could almost see the cogs turning in his brain as he worked out what was happening.

"Tig?" the giant whimpered, full of uncertainty.

_Oh, God…_

How could Adam warn her, this kind angel who had freed him? She had taken pity on his plight – and how was he going to repay her?

Tig's head swivelled and he followed Marvin's gaze. The look in his eyes was murderous.

"You dare…" he snarled.

Adam spun from the chair and dropped to his knees right in front of the unknown stranger. He never looked back, though he longed to see her face. Instead, with his chin in the air, he drew Tig's attention away from her. "I'm sorry," he offered. "It's my fault, alright? My hands were numb. She only…"

That was as far as he got before Tig raised the gun and took careful aim. Adam's explanation died away upon his lips. This was no bluff meant to frighten a victim. This was The End. Adam clenched his aching fists and tried to meet it bravely.

Then Time became tangled as everything happened at once...

… A flash and a bang, and a streak of pain through his shoulder…

… Behind him, a scream…

… Don Flack cursed in fury, but Tig only smiled…

_Is that it?_ With a sigh, Adam let go of Time altogether. The last thing he saw as he hit the floor was the empty, wrinkled face of his brave new friend.

-x0x-

Don struggled to rise – _too late,_ he keened – but Selena was quicker.

"You monster," she cried. "That's enough!"

Her clear voice barely carried above the wails and the screaming. There was no doubt in the room any more. Tig's threats were real and the hostages were terrified. Even the giant was howling; a fearful sound that begged for sympathy. But they had killed Adam, a kind soul if ever there was one, and Don's heart was hardening rapidly.

"Get down," he hissed, as he grabbed for the bar and hauled himself upwards. The pain in his head protested but he refused to let that hold him back. "Too late," he mumbled, as he rose. He was almost upright when Selena pushed him.

Losing his grip, Don swayed and fell. "Wha…? Hey!"

He landed heavily, knocking the breath from his lungs, and stared up in shock at her grim, white face. Her action felt like a betrayal, though he thought he understood her motive.

"Please – that's enough!" Selena yelled again, wrenching her gaze away from Don.

This time, the monster heard her cry. He held up his hand for silence and the hostages obeyed, like a sinister magic trick. All that remained was the pig-like snuffling of the miserable giant, and Don's own wheezing battle to drag air back into his chest.

"You got something to say to me?" Tig demanded.

"I do." Selena's voice was high and frightened, but she held her nerve. "I'm the one you're searching for. Please, put an end to this."

Oddly, Tig did not look happy – or convinced. "_You're_ Adler? A woman?"

Selena shook her head. Don watched in silence, unable to make up his own mind. Was she being truthful – or was this a bold illusion, meant to try and save the day? "I'm afraid I don't have that honour," she said quietly. "I'm just a part of the crew."

"Prove it," Tig demanded, still on edge.

"No," Selena told him, folding her arms.

Her bravery was unmistakable but, all the same, Don wished she had spoken up sooner. _Coward,_ he accused himself. _This isn't her fault._ He spared a glance for the fallen body of his colleague – no, his _friend_ – and cursed his own bad luck for bringing them here in the first place.

Here to see a beautiful barmaid...

_I hope Danny made it out okay._

Tig raised the gun and pointed it straight at Selena's head. "No?" he echoed angrily.

"No," she replied. "You're not going to shoot me. You want answers, right? Well, I want something in return…"

-x0x-

**A/N: Apologies for the delay! I've had no internet access at home since late last week. Fortunately, things are back to normal now. Hope it was worth the wait!**

**To Gwyn, the guest reviewer – thank you for commenting on every chapter! I'm glad you're enjoying the story.**


	9. Chapter 9

**THE STANDOFF**

**Chapter Nine**

It was snowing when Mac stepped out of the Avalanche. Ugly wet flakes spiralled down from the sky and wherever they settled, they melted. His hair was drenched in a matter of minutes, and his winter coat grew heavy, dragging him down in a manner that suited his mood. Full of dismay at the chaotic scene in front of him, he strode towards the nearest man in uniform, followed closely by Lindsay and Jo.

"I'm Detective Mac Taylor, from the Crime Lab. Who's in charge here?" he growled.

The uniformed officer quailed. He was unfamiliar to Mac, and very young. _Too young, _Mac decided arbitrarily as he waited for an answer.

"That's what I'd like to know." A second voice chimed in, surprising him with its cultured tones and mid-Atlantic accent. "I've been asking ever since I arrived, but no one will tell me. Think they actually know?" The woman moved into his line of sight and raised an eyebrow. Somehow, even soaking wet, she managed to maintain a sense of dignity. Her white hair seemed at odds with her smooth skin, and Mac suspected it was dyed that way, for some peculiar reason. "Or were they just waiting for you, I wonder?" she continued, weighing him up in return with her cool blue eyes.

"Ansell," the uni blurted out. He pointed to a dour-faced individual several yards away. "Sergeant. Sorry," he added for good measure, aiming his apology somewhere in between both parties. Mac gave a terse nod. The woman shook her head.

"I see," she said. "Good old-fashioned misogyny at work. The NYPD boys' club strikes again…" She flicked at the bright yellow tape that divided them.

"We look like boys to you?" Brushing past him, Jo took over, granting Mac the freedom to escape the conversation and move on, should he wish to do so. "Jo Danville. _Detective_ Jo Danville. This is my colleague, _Detective _Lindsay Messer." Her unspoken query was obvious. _And you are…?_

_I don't have time for this, _Mac thought. As he headed towards the unfortunate Ansell, however, his sharp hearing picked up the stranger's reply. "My name is Erin Baker. I'm the owner of Leporello's Bar - ring any bells? Because it should. I'd really like to know why New York's 'finest' are camped outside my door on this fine winter evening. Maybe _you_ can tell me, _Detective_ Danville?"

Mac spun around. "You don't know?"

She shook her head. "I went out to deposit the first set of takings. Friday nights are busy, and I don't like having too much ready money on the premises. When I came back…" She gestured flamboyantly, the sweep of her hand returning their attention to the chaotic jumble of cars, trucks and uniforms.

Meanwhile, the young officer - who was sneakier than he looked – had already darted around them and made his way to Ansell, alerting the sergeant to Mac's presence. The news made no dint whatsoever in Ansell's sour expression. Like an angry bear, he lumbered over to the little group, looking very put-out.

"I didn't call you," he growled. "We've got this, okay? Don't need no science monkeys."

Jo gave a sly grin. "Oh," she said, "didn't the officer tell you? This is Detective Mac Taylor. You know – the _Head_ of the Crime Lab?"

Mac shot her a look that said 'don't get carried away'. He could fight his own battles – though not with the same kind of relish that Jo often displayed. Action was key here, not endless talking. "Fill me in," he ordered, with a quiet air of confidence that carried its own authority.

The gloomy sergeant passed a hand across his face, scrubbing it free of the melting snow, if only for a moment. "Sorry," he said. "Didn't know who you were. Idiot just said 'Crime Lab'. What do you need to know, Detective?"

A terse nod was the only sign that Mac chose to accept the man's apology. "Sergeant Ansell, can you tell me why no one thought to question Ms. Baker? She owns the bar - and works there too?" he added, with a quick glance in Erin's direction. She smiled her acknowledgement, clearly much happier now that her voice was being heard.

Ansell frowned. "Didn't know who she was," he admitted.

_And yet we've been here all of two minutes…_ Mac refrained from making things worse, though the comment was hovering right on the tip of his tongue, ready to leap out. Sarcasm could be a useful tool – but not in this case, he suspected. "Look – I have men on the inside. Two from the crime lab and one from the Twelfth. What do _you_ have?"

"I know about those guys. Word came through. Messer, right, and Detective Flack?" Ansell looked uncomfortable. "Good men. I hope they're okay. We just heard a gunshot, seconds before you got here. Looks like one hostage down; maybe two."

Mac felt icy cold, and it had nothing to do with the snow. "_Three_ men," he corrected. "Messer, Flack and Adam Ross. Tell me everything... start from the beginning. No - show me. Now!"

Leaving Erin Baker in Jo and Lindsay's capable hands, Mac followed Ansell along the line of squad cars to a better viewpoint. The sodden flakes were falling thick and fast by now. Mac peered between them, squinting as he took in every detail of the scene with a speed and precision that harked back to his military training.

Leporello's Bar was situated in the basement of a silent office building. A set of icy steps led down to the main door and a tiny little area that was slushy with snow. Any incursion from this angle would be obvious and fraught with difficulty, not least because of the door, the top half of which was a sheet of smoky glass, From his elevated viewpoint, Mac could make out the shifting heads of a nervous, seated crowd. He could not see the hostage-takers. Nor could he see Flack or Adam. Danny, he knew, was hiding out of sight.

Just inside the door was an empty chair.

"What's that about?" Mac demanded.

Ansell followed his gaze and then wrenched his eyes away, looking guilty. "That was the hostage they shot. It all happened so fast... there was nothing we could do..."

_Whoever put this guy in charge has a lot to answer for,_ Mac thought grimly. "ESU?"

"On their way." Ansell tried to defend himself. "There was another incident - some kinda blow-out in Hell's Kitchen, or so I heard. They got held up comin' over here... This snow is causing havoc."

"And so a hostage is dead." The statement was harsh, but Mac couldn't hold back any more. He was sick of excuses, and inaction. "What _has _your team done, exactly?"

"Cordoned off the area. Assessed the situation. Called off the fire department. We were about to try and establish contact when you arrived, Detective Taylor."

_Go on,_ said Mac's grave expression.

"We know there are three guys. They only have one gun, as far as we can tell, but most of the hostages seem to be compliant - guess they're pretty scared in there. We think the guy on the chair said or did somethin' wrong. Pissed 'em off, maybe. That's why they put him in front of the door, like a shield. And that's why they shot him."

Mac clenched his fists, out of sight. He knew a man who could have that effect on people without even trying. Two men, in fact, but Danny was safe for now - or so he hoped. "Did you get a good look at the hostage? Can you describe him?" An echo was haunting him; something that Danny had said on the phone. What _was_ it…?

"Yes." Ansell's gruff voice was full of regret. "He was youngish; thirties, maybe? Curly hair, kinda scruffy. A beard..." He gestured with his hand, stroking his chin in a way that was far too familiar. "They shot him point-blank, from what I could see."

_They've also got Adam in front of the door, all tied up…_

The cold feeling twisted and drove right through Mac's heart like a knife.

Adam was dead?

Somehow, he managed to keep his voice steady. "If I show you a picture," he said to Ansell, "could you confirm his identity?"

"One of yours?" Ansell looked horrorstruck. "Yes."

Mac turned and waved to Lindsay, calling her over. She came at once, her bright eyes wide with fear as she read his expression. "Danny?" was all she said.

He shook his head, full of sympathy for her plight and yet knowing the truth would be almost as painful. It was hard to speak the words but he managed to force them out. "Do you have a picture of Adam on your cell?"

She grew rigid. A deep breath; a moment of panic... and then she returned to him. "Yes, With Lucy at her birthday party, blowing bubbles. Will that do?" Fishing the cell phone out of her pocket, she scrolled through the images, frowning with concentration. Mac waited silently. Ansell was shifting his weight back and forth. Was that snowmelt on his brow, or a river of sweat?

_I almost feel sorry for him._

_Almost..._

"Here!" Lindsay cried out. They huddled together, her palm crooked over the screen to keep it from getting too wet. The image was lovely. It made Mac smile for a moment, until Ansell spoke, right beside him.

"That's the man I saw. Detective Taylor, I'm so sorry..."

"Sorry isn't good enough," Mac snapped at him in anger and dismay. "I'm taking charge here; Chief's orders. You don't like it, take that up with him - but do it on your own time. We need to get those people out of there, right now, before another _hostage_ dies." The word was bitter in his mouth, like bile.

Ansell did not argue but his cheeks were flaming red. Mac guessed he had just made an enemy. _Irrelevant,_ he told himself. _I'm not here to hold his hand._

Turning back to Lindsay, he watched the silent tears slip down her face and forced himself to speak more gently. Ansell was an idiot, but here was a colleague who had his respect - and who needed him. Her husband was in danger and yet here she stood, ready to do her job to the best of her ability. Mac laid a hand on her shoulder. "Time to call Danny," he said. "I want to find out what's _really_ going on in there. Think you can handle that?"

-x0x-

Jo was an expert in reading body language - especially that of her colleagues - but even a novice like Erin Baker seemed to know that something dreadful had happened. The two women looked at each other and their expression was identical.

"I have friends in there. Good friends," Erin's face was white.

"So do I," Jo told her grimly. "But we have to stay calm right now, if we want to help them. Mac's the best - you should know that, okay?"

"Okay..."

Lifting the tape, Jo beckoned her in. "Do you mind if I ask you some questions?"

"Do I mind? That's refreshing. Aren't you going to ask them anyway?"

Jo shrugged. "As my momma says, good manners cost nothing."

"And they always come in handy when you want to be persuasive?"

It was hard to avoid Erin's sharp gaze. _You'd make one heck of a profiler,_ Jo thought, adjusting her opinion of the woman, and also the way that she spoke to her. "So they taught me."

"They?"

"The FBI." Jo positioned herself so that she could see over Erin's shoulder. Maybe she couldn't be there with Mac and Lindsay right now, but she was determined to keep an eye on them. _No more friends in danger, _she urged them, wishing they could hear her thoughts. _Don't be reckless._ Which was like telling a camel not to spit when it came to Detective Mac Taylor.

_Yes - and you're no saint, Jo Danville,_ she scolded herself, with a wry grin that faded when she saw that Erin was still studying her face. "Find what you're looking for?" she asked, unable to help herself. What was it about this woman that got her goat so easily? _You're the same, of course, _said her conscience smugly.

Erin's reply was short and far from simple. "Yes, thank you."

_Okay,_ Jo thought, _enough of this._ "So, Ms. Baker. How long have you owned Leporello's?"

Shifting her manner to match, Erin tucked her hair behind her ears in a business-like way. "Three years. Before that, it belonged to my uncle, Edward Hudson."

"Any reason you can think of why this place would be a target?"

Was she imagining it, or did those blue eyes flicker? "No reason whatsoever," Erin replied with ease.

"And your staff? Inside the bar, right now?"

The owner ticked the names off on her fingers. "Selena Doyle. Mary Wilson. Oh, and John Grace should have been on tonight but he called in sick. That's why I took the shift. The girls run the bar and John's my assistant manager."

"That's all?" Jo said, surprised.

"That's all. There's a recession, you know. Times are hard. We make a good team," Erin said. "My staff are all hard workers. I_ trust _them," she told Jo pointedly.

_Easy to say. _"I'm sure you do." Jo stored the names in her head so that she could call Sheldon and get him to run them. _Once I drag him away from his romantic evening with Camille, that is..._ She sighed as she recalled the last thing the doctor had begged for as he left the building. _No emergencies, no call-outs. Sorry, Sheldon,_ Jo thought ruefully. _But in this case, I have no doubt you'd want me to make an exception._ "Any customers who like to cause a ruckus?" she continued. "Someone you've recently barred? A troublesome pack?"

"A _pack_? Like hyenas, or something?"

"That's the way they'd act when they're together," Jo said. "Why? Can you think of one?"

"No," Erin answered - but Jo was beginning to suspect that the woman was holding back.

"Are you sure?"

"_Very _sure. Do you think I'm lying?"

Erin's accusation was so close to the bone that it startled Jo. Her reply was blunt - another question. "_Are_ you?"

Erin shook her head and pressed her lips together. Which was practically a confession, in Jo's book.

-x0x-

Danny was in Purgatory. Adam and Flack were trapped inside the bar with the hostages. Mac was on his way with the rest of the team – including Lindsay. _And me, _he thought bitterly; _me, I'm stuck in the middle._ He couldn't act to save his friends. He couldn't even go outside and talk to Mac on his own terms. Instead, here he was at the mercy of some woman who called herself _Nemesis_, for pity's sake.

"I'm sick of this," he muttered_._ "It ends right now." Could he take her? He needed that gun for himself, but a struggle would be noisy. Danny dithered, and in doing so, he lost his opportunity.

"You're right," Nemesis breathed, mistaking his meaning – on purpose? He couldn't be sure. "If we go in, your boss has our back, right? Mine too?"

_If we…_ "Wait, what? You wanna go in there… and what? Get shot for your trouble, before you can say 'howdy, fellas'?"

"That's cute, Detective. But I have a gun too."

"I know that," he said fervently. "Believe me, I do. And that's the _only_ reason I'm still here with you, _Nemesis._"

"Keep your voice down," she hissed.

"Why? We're out of sight and out of earshot. Basically, we're hiding." Try as he might, Danny couldn't keep his emotions from bubbling over. He was sick of the whole situation and, like Nemesis, he longed to act - but he was the cop here and that meant he was supposed to be the voice of reason. _Lindsay would get a big kick outta that, _he thought wryly.

Lindsay. He wished she was here with him, right now, instead of this psycho. Together, they'd know what to do.

"Then you agree with me." Nemesis pressed what she thought was her advantage.

"Yes. _No._ What are you talkin' about? We need to wait for Mac."

"You know," she sighed, "when you broke out of that storeroom, I respected you."

"And now?"

"And now I respectfully decline to answer." The look in her eyes was scornful. "You got friends in there, same as me. You know they're in trouble. Your boss is too slow and I'm sick of waiting, just like you. But _un_like you, I'm no coward." She stepped out into the corridor, beckoning him with the gun.

Danny followed, his brain working overtime. There had to be a clean way out of this mess. The guys were counting on him, he was sure of that. Not to mention all those other hostages.

_Maybe Nemesis is right, _said a small, persistent voice inside his head. _You like action, don't you? Go with your gut._ Yet his gut, for once, was screaming 'caution' and it had nothing to do with cowardice.

Nemesis had almost reached the doorway to the bar when a shot rang out. Now people were screaming for real, and Danny longed to join them. He had a bad, bad feeling – clichéd, but true. His heart was in his throat and banging so hard that it threatened to choke him. He tried to look over his captor's shoulder but she pushed him back.

The screaming died away and Danny could hear two people talking; a man and a woman. He could also see that Nemesis was deathly pale. Her lips were tight and her jaw was clenched. She was gearing up for action. Something in the room had freaked her out; that much was certain.

_Who got shot?_ Not knowing the answer was torture. Once more, he tried to see past her, but Nemesis grabbed his wrist with her free hand. Her grip was like iron. No way was she going to let him escape without a fight - and they were too close to the danger zone. Whatever plan she had in that messed-up brain of hers, he was part of the deal. _Okay then,_ he thought, and took a deep breath, preparing himself.

"I got this, okay?" she said bravely – and launched them both into the room.

Deep down, he had to admire her.


	10. Chapter 10

**THE STANDOFF**

**Chapter Ten**

Don was seriously starting to doubt the reality of his situation. This whole thing felt more like one of those vivid junk food nightmares that made no sense whatsoever and left you with a nasty feeling in your gut when you woke up. If it wasn't so frightening, it would be laughable.

_Tell that to Adam Ross…_

The thought was painful and he pushed it away. _Gotta deal with that later._

And now here was Danny, bursting onto the scene, his timing impeccable as always. Don experienced a dark sense of pleasure when he saw the look of confusion on Tig's face. The man was in danger of losing control. That was bad – but also weirdly satisfying.

Using his elbows to push himself up again, Don ignored the unhealthy lurch in his stomach and tried to catch Danny's eye without being spotted. The man had found an ally with a gun and that gun had just saved the day. Selena slumped against the bar, her loss of poise a clear sign of her relief. She knew the woman then, he guessed. Another member of this so-called 'gang', perhaps?

Tig glanced from one to the other and drew the same conclusion. "Oh look," he jeered, drawing strength from his sarcasm. "Now there's two of 'em. Come and join us, sweetness. We're havin' a party here – and your girl is the guest of honour."

Danny's new friend took a less subtle approach. "Shut up," she said plainly. "This ends right now."

"Because?" Tig's eyes were dangerously bright.

"Because I have a gun, you arrogant jerk. And it's pointing straight at your empty head."

She was gutsy, Don had to admit, but her logic was flawed, as anyone could see. He wondered why Danny had let her keep the gun. Did she know he was a cop? Was there something else going on here that Don didn't know about? Squinting, he noticed the firm way she held onto Danny's wrist, keeping him behind her at all times. Was she trying to _protect_ him? Danny, for his part, was staring at the empty chair in front of the door and his face was deathly pale. Don shuddered, watching the other man's gaze shift downwards… Watching him discover Adam's fate.

Tig waved his gun in an obvious kind of way. _See – I have one too._ "Niall," he said, without turning aside, "help me out with the other one."

Relishing the order, Lover Boy sidled up to Selena. His leering expression made Don feel queasy again. Snatching an empty wine glass from the counter, Niall snapped off the base, creating a needle-sharp dagger.

_Déjà vu,_ Don thought, and the dreamlike sensation intensified.*

With the wooden bar behind her, Selena had no way to escape. Don could see by the look on her face that she was gearing up to fight, but Niall was wiry and his friends were unpredictable. No way that was going to end well.

Throwing caution to the wind, he waited until Niall was close enough and pulled his leg right out from under him. The ugly little man fell on top of Don and together they wrangled. Unable to intervene, Tig hissed in frustration. "Get a grip, man!"

"Not if I get one first," Don mumbled, turning his head just in time as the glass stem dove towards his eyeball. It took a neat chunk from his earlobe instead, and he couldn't help wincing. The pain was bright and oddly invigorating. Don felt alert for the first time since he had flown across the bar. Now, at last, he could think straight.

Niall gave a wild laugh, which quickly devolved into a mindless gurgle as Selena, showing great presence of mind, grabbed a handy bottle and smashed it over his head. Beer ran down his face as his eyes rolled upwards.

Twisting sideways, Don pulled the man's unconscious body with him so that Niall ended up on his lap, with Don's arm wrapped around his throat and the glass stem hovering inches from his jugular. Meanwhile, Selena let the jagged bottle fall and folded her own arms in triumph, enjoying the irony.

"I'm sorry – you were saying?" Don challenged Tig with mock-politeness.

-x0x-

Danny felt numb. The room spun round him, with an empty chair at the centre of the vortex. Seeing Adam tied up had been bad enough. Seeing him quiet and still on the floor felt_ wrong_, in a heart-stopping way that left Danny drifting in a world of guilt and pain.

_Gotta focus,_ he told himself urgently. First and foremost, they had to get these people out of here. Get some help for Adam too, because Danny refused to believe he was dead. The woman behind him, now, that was a whole different matter. She had a bright red, blossoming hole in the middle of her chest that left no room for doubt. Danny knew that one bullet could kill two people – but to pass all the way through Adam's core and still do damage like that? _I got hope, okay buddy? Hang in there…_ He pressed his lips together stubbornly and looked around for Flack.

It didn't take long to find him. And he didn't look good – but 'not good' was better than dead, Danny decided, casting a careful eye over his friend's condition, as Tig and Nemesis faced off like a couple of Wild West gunslingers. He needed to work out if Don was capable of action, should the need arise, or if he himself was now, to all intents and purposes, the only fit cop on the scene. The thought was a horrible one, but Danny forced himself to be brutal as he studied Don's pale face, the ugly bruise across his forehead, the tremor in his hands and the slight lack of focus in his gaze. Concussion, at the very least. Which meant that Don was out of it.

Then all hell broke loose and Danny's careful judgement fell to pieces.

_I should've known,_ he thought when the unexpected fight was over, and found that he was grinning with relief. Don Flack may be down but no way was he out of the game. His blue eyes were clear now, and shone with a wicked light of triumph as he clung to the unconscious Niall.

Tig's face was scarlet. He tried to contain his fury but the cracks were definitely showing and it was only a matter of time before he blew like an angry volcano. Which would be bad, Danny guessed. _Really_ bad.

"You," Tig said, turning away from Don in vexation, and venting all his spite at Nemesis. "You're part of Adler's pathetic little gang. Another _girl._"

"Observant." She nodded. "You don't like girls?"

Tig leered, a foul expression. "Oh, I like girls…" His meaning was clear. Danny fantasised about wiping that look from his face with a well-aimed right hook, or a blow to his nose, but Nemesis was still holding onto him. He could have pulled away – forced the issue – but she was in control right now and handling herself remarkably well. So he waited.

_Mac would be proud, _he thought wryly. Danny Messer, showing restraint for once in his life.

"Pity they don't like _you_, right, Ugly? Can't say I blame them." Nemesis was something else. She seemed to have no fear when it came to her own safety. Yet he could see from the barmaid's face that they were trading glances all the while. There was some kind of bond between them, and Danny knew beyond all doubt that Nemesis would give up everything to save her friend, including her life if she had to. That was something he understood, and he liked her so much better for it.

Fishing in her pocket, Nemesis brought out a familiar object.

"See this?" she challenged Tig, waving the cell phone aloft. "One push of a button and I've got the cops on the other end. I can help us all get out of this, with no more _guns _and no more bloodshed."

Danny risked a sideways glance at Adam. He couldn't help himself.

"The cops ain't got no part in this," Tig sneered.

Time to gamble it all on a single confession. Time to take control and claim the man's attention for himself, dragging it away from everyone else in the room. With his gut as his only guide, Danny stepped into view. He was unarmed and yet strangely unafraid. Action was the key to courage. "Matter of fact, they do," he said pleasantly. "She's right, you know. We can help you. Let me make the call."

_And please, for the love of God, don't just shoot me where I stand…_

-x0x-

_There was a murmur of voices downstairs, and a strong sense that Death was close by._

_Adam lay beside his mother on the bed; a child once more, longing to hold her hand and hear her gentle voice as she told him that things would be better one day._

"_You were right, Mom," he whispered – but Harriet Ross couldn't hear him. She was staring down a different path and even the voice of her favourite child couldn't hold her back any longer. "Thank you for loving me." He leaned his cheek on her bony shoulder, hating the way that it felt – so hard and impersonal. She had always been such a comfortable pillow when he was a small boy, and needed her._

_I need you now, he thought sadly. But it was too late. With a sigh like a prayer, her soul left her and he was alone; just a man with an empty shell beside him._

_Adam wept in silence. Nobody came to comfort him and finally, wrung out and broken-hearted, he fell fast asleep on the bed…_

When he awoke, he was frightened and disorientated. There was a pain in his shoulder like a fiery blade from Hell and yet he felt ice cold. His eyelids were stiff and he could not crack them open. Where was his mother? What was going on?

The voices from his dream were still there, but now they were louder and one seemed familiar. _Danny,_ he thought in astonishment. How did _he_ come to be here? Adam had told no one where he was going. He was afraid of their sympathy, and their kindness, which would unman him completely just when he had to be strong.

He forced himself to look. There was an old woman lying beside him but her face did not belong to his mother. She was dead, though; he could see that straight away. The hole in her chest was deep and her coat was stained with blood that spread outwards like the ragged petals of a fading rose.

_She… saved me._ The thought was a tentative one. His memory was patchy and his sense of time and place was out of kilter.

_I'm in a bar. There was trouble. _Like the sense of doom that comes before a thunderstorm, his panic grew.

_I've been shot!_

His breath caught in his throat and refused to go any further. Twisting, he flopped onto his back and forced it out, though the movement cost him dearly. The pain in his shoulder intensified, spreading out through his chest as his body reacted. _Okay… don't think I'm gonna do that again…_

Adam closed his eyes and focussed on the sound of his own rasping breath, trying to calm himself down. All the while, the voices continued, speaking words he could not seem to follow. _Danny,_ he thought. _Danny, help me…_

But no one came near him.

-x0x-

Marvin was trying to pretend he was invisible – and so far, it seemed to be working. He stood by the bar in silence, clenching his fists as cold rivers of sweat ran down his back. His shirt was sticking to him and his skin prickled fiercely. _I'm going to faint,_ he thought – no, he _hoped, _but the room didn't vanish and neither did he; not really.

The cops were outside. He could tell by the flashing lights that pierced the smoky glass. They were red, white and blue, like the flag he knew by heart and loved, with its neat, starry rows and its sense of belonging. But cops were bad; Tig said so. And Tig was always right – _until now_, Marvin realised, trying to make sense of all that had happened. The world was turning upside down. He pictured himself on the ceiling, and smiled for a moment, but the feeling was short-lived.

Niall was asleep in the arms of the smiling man. He looked peaceful, and Marvin was jealous. Why couldn't somebody hold _him_ like that? He was scared, after all, and he wanted some comfort. Tig had his temper for company. All Marvin had was his fear – and fear was a hateful companion.

"I want Dad," he whimpered.

To his great surprise, Tig turned and glared at him. "That's why we're here, you great baby," he grumbled. "We're close now, Marvin; don't lose it, okay?"

Marvin was confused. His hands and his pockets were empty. What _did _he have to lose?

_Your life,_ he thought suddenly. Just like the kind man. He wanted to ask Tig about that, and opened his mouth – but his brother was speaking again, to the fierce lady who had appeared out of nowhere.

"Make your call," Tig told her in a voice that was suddenly calm. "I know what I want – and I know how to get it."

-x0x-

**A/N: Thanks for all the lovely reviews. It's so good to know that there are people out there wondering what happens next! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Any delays are the fault of Real Life, but I'm trying not to let my updates go beyond a week and a half at the most, since I know you're all waiting so eagerly ;)**

***_ See 'Flash Pop', which contains a similar weapon._**


	11. Chapter 11

**THE STANDOFF**

**Chapter Eleven**

The vultures and the cavalry arrived together, just as Lindsay was about to make her call.

Mac spared a two-second glance for the circling media. Bad weather, hostages, gunfire – every unhappy detail would be yet another tidbit for their insatiable appetite. Turning away, he pushed them right to the back of the long list of problems in his head. Let them peddle their stories – _but don't let them get in my way, _he thought grimly.

ESU was a far more welcome sight. Mac smiled in relief when he recognised the first man to descend from their truck. Jack Morton was ex-military, with a quiet manner that made his capability seem far more surprising, somehow. He was the epitome of the motto 'look before you leap' – not because he liked to over-think his strategy, but simply because he _chose _to think, rather than rushing straight in, all guns blazing. _Thank God, _Mac thought. The hostages in the bar didn't know it but their odds of surviving this crisis had just increased by a factor of ten at the very least.

"Taylor," said the tall man, his features composed, as they always were, in a smooth expression guaranteed to cover all eventualities. Mac was one of the privileged few who had ever seen him crack a smile, at the meal which followed his son's graduation from the Academy. Morton's straight face was his trademark, and a curious comfort to those around him.

"Morton," Mac said in return, with a minimal nod that gave no indication of his true regard for the man and his methods. "This is Detective Lindsay Messer."

"One of yours?" Morton asked in his low, steady voice.

"One of the best." Watching Lindsay blush, Mac felt a warm sense of satisfaction. "Need me to fill you in?"

"I know the bare bones from dispatch – but yes, I'd like the details," Morton nodded. "You're here. Tell me why."

Shrewd as ever, then. Mac explained the situation quickly and concisely. When he tilted his head in the direction of Erin Baker, Morton's level gaze followed suit. Choosing to misinterpret this as an unspoken invitation, Ms. Baker marched towards them, followed closely by a startled Jo Danville. Mac frowned. Not again…

"Ms. Baker, you really shouldn't be this close to the scene. It isn't safe. That's why we put up the tape."

"The scene?" Her laugh was high and slightly frantic. "Is that what we're calling it? Really? That's my bar – and those are my _friends _in there." Like a broken record, she kept coming around to the same point – and like a broken record, she was chipping away at his patience.

"Which is why you need to let us do our job," he advised her, trying to stay calm.

Erin looked at him scornfully. "Next you'll be telling me you _understand_ how I'm feeling."

Out of the corner of his eye, Mac saw Lindsay open her mouth. With the smallest of gestures, he cautioned her to keep silent.

"Madam, with all due respect, right now your feelings are not our priority," Morton said evenly. Mac envied him his composure. "I'm sure _you _understand. If you want to help your friends – and I know that you do – then you need to step away and let us concentrate."

Nodding, Erin turned to go – but she was only feigning meekness. When Jo laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder, she twisted away and made as if to dart past them, clearly aiming for a vantage point where she could catch a glimpse of what was going on inside the bar. Fortunately, Jo was just as quick. The look on the elegant Ms. Baker's face was savage when Jo grabbed her wrist and hauled her back.

"Don't you touch me," she snapped, looking so much like an angry cat that Mac half-expected her to hiss.

"I'll do worse than touch you if you don't calm down," Jo told her pleasantly. "Honey, I'll arrest you. Do you really want to go there?"

Erin studied her face… and came to a decision. Her whole demeanour changed and her pale blue eyes grew wide. "I'm sorry," she said. "That was rude of me. I'm just so worried about my girls. You can understand that, can't you, Detective? Sir?" She turned and directed the full force of her gaze at Mac. No doubt she had picked him out as the leader of the group.

_Smart woman,_ he thought, feeling rather uneasy for reasons he could not explain.

It was at this very moment that his cell phone began to ring. Just as he knew it would, the caller ID belonged to Danny.

Mac held out the cell as agreed, but Lindsay shook her head.

"I'm grateful for the things you said before," she told him. "It means a lot that you trust me so much. And believe me, Mac, I want to hear Danny's voice more than anything right now – but you're the one who needs to do this." Her eyes were a barrier, holding back her emotions. "Think you can handle it?" she added softly, just for him, turning his own words against him with a subtle, sad display of humour meant to ease the situation.

She was right, of course. Mac nodded and lifted the cell to his ear. No more wasting time. This was the best chance they had to take control of the situation - or, at the very least, to find out what was going on. "Mac Taylor," he said clearly. Meanwhile, Morton gestured to his team and began to issue quiet orders, pointing to the area around them. Mac could tell he still had one ear on the conversation, and so he activated the speaker again, letting everyone around him hear both sides. It was a risk, but necessary.

"Detective Taylor," a voice replied; not Danny but his 'complicated' lady friend. Lindsay closed her eyes and took a deep breath to steady herself. Mac could feel her pain as though it were his own. He clenched his teeth and narrowed his focus. _Take your own advice, _he thought angrily. The only way to help _his _friends was to Do His Job.

"I'd like to know who I'm talking to," he said carefully.

"I'm sure you would."

Mac turned to Erin Baker and raised his eyebrows, but she offered nothing in return. If this was one of her 'girls', then she wasn't about to admit it. "How can I help you?" he asked the unknown woman, giving up on Erin in disgust. "Is Danny still there?"

"I'm not alone," the voice confirmed in a cryptic manner. "And you're on speaker, Detective. Just as I am at your end, no doubt. Be careful what you say – we're _all_ listening."

That was an unexpected warning. Mac couldn't quite decipher the tone. One thing was certain – it had come too late. If the hostage-takers didn't know who Danny was before, then they did now. _Dammit, _he thought, watching Lindsay reach the same conclusion. "Is everyone safe?" he asked.

"No one's been shot since we joined this little party."

_Meaning 'it's not my fault that one of your men is down',_ Mac thought bitterly. "Can I talk to the man with the gun?"

There was a slight pause.

"Things have changed. We're at a bit of a standoff right now," the woman said carefully. "I hope you're good at solving puzzles, Detective Taylor."

"If I have all the pieces," he replied. "You've got a gun too, but you're not the hostage-taker; I know that. I need to speak to the man in charge, if you want me to make a difference here. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes," she admitted. "The look on his face says he's gagging to talk to _you_. Though I'm telling you now, I'm a better alternative. This guy's an idiot. Good luck!"

Whoever she was, he had to admire her spirit. After a series of crackles – the cell phone in transit, no doubt – a new voice aired its own opinion of her final statement, swearing so vociferously that Mac couldn't help wincing in disgust.

"Those are some colourful words," Jo murmured. "I don't think he's very happy…"

Danny's crazy friend had certainly poked a hornet's nest. If this was an example of her 'co-operation' then Mac didn't want any part of it. "My name is Detective Mac Taylor," he said loudly, breaking through the expletives. "Right now, I'm your best chance of survival. I suggest you listen to me…"

"No," said the man. His voice was tight with fury. "You listen to _me._ I hold all the cards, and you know it. Which means I get what _I_ want."

"And that is?" Mac forced himself to remain polite. It was a very good job that there was a wall between them. He had a strong urge to punch the hostage-taker in the face right now, for his childishness and spite. He wondered how Flack was managing to hold back. According to Danny, he was hurt, which had to be the reason - that, and a roomful of people whose fate was in the hands of this…_ Okay,_ Mac admitted silently; the woman was right. This _idiot_.

"I want Adler."

_And I'm supposed to know who that is without asking? _Glancing around the little group, Mac could tell that the name meant nothing to his colleagues either. "Adler," he repeated, unwilling to show his empty hand until he had more information.

"You got it. That's why I'm here. He took something of mine, Detective Taylor, and I don't plan to leave this place until he gives it back. Not broken, but whole, mind – or he might find his girls ain't lookin' quite so pretty any more…"

His girls. Mac frowned. "What about the other hostages? They have nothing to do with this. They're not part of your quarrel with Adler."

"Oh yes, they are. They're my leverage." Mac hated smugness, and this man's voice was thick with it by now. "I've looked around some – asked a few questions - and I say Adler ain't here. If he _is_, then the creep's even less than the coward I took him for, hidin' behind these two skirts and a whole bunch of strangers to save his own skin. Nah – I'm bettin' he's out _there_, and you're gonna find him for me." There was a slight pause, and a whispered conversation on the other end. "For us," the man amended. "Me an' my brother, we want this re-_solved_. You know I'm serious, don't you? I'm guessin' you had a front row seat. You saw what I did, and I'll do it again in a heartbeat."

"If I don't shoot you first," said the woman's angry voice, faint but terribly fierce.

This was a powder keg. Hostage negotiations were volatile enough without the added peril of a standoff. "I need some time," Mac suggested. "But listen to me. You shoot one more person and you'll find out soon enough that we have guns out here too. Lots of guns, with lots of bullets. Fancy your odds?"

"Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. I know your type, detective. Meanin' I know what motivates you. Life is precious, ain't that right? And cops have rules… Call me back when you've found what I'm looking for. You know the number. You know the _man_. Danny, wasn't it…?"

Lindsay closed her eyes and turned away as the phone went dead.

She wasn't the only one. Erin Baker's face was lost behind the heavy curtain of her white hair. Mac circled round until she had no choice but to look at him. "Tell me," he ordered. "Tell me the truth. This _is_ your bar, as you keep on reminding us. Tell me you know what he's talking about."

Gone was any sign of confidence, or righteous indignation. Erin's eyes were shifty and shone at the corners. Snow had turned her hair into rat's tails. All at once, Mac felt a wave of sympathy – and, more than that, he _knew_.

"You're Adler, aren't you? You're the one he's looking for."

Lindsay gasped behind him but he got the feeling that Jo was less surprised. Erin lifted her head. "Immunity," she whispered. "Promise me that, for me and my girls, Detective Taylor."

There it was again, the vital clue. 'My girls'. "You care about them."

"Of course I do. They're family; the only kind that matters." Now Erin's eyes were pleading.

"Promise her, Mac," Lindsay muttered urgently. "We have to get him out before… _All _of them. All of them out," she amended. He could hear the shame in her voice at the slip, but he did not condemn her. Danny was her life, pure and simple; the husband she loved; the father of her child. Mac was only impressed that she had held her feelings back for so long. Jo's lips, meanwhile, were tightly pressed together and her jaw was strained. No question, she was hurting too.

_They're family; the only kind that matters…_

"If you've committed some kind of crime, I'll do my best to see you get fair treatment," Mac told Erin Baker – or Adler – or whatever her true name happened to be. "That's all I can promise you, here and now - but you have my word on that. And I _keep _my word." When Jo nodded in silent confirmation, he continued. "Do you know that man in there?"

"No," Erin answered hoarsely. "I don't think so. He didn't sound familiar."

"Then do you know what he wants from you?"

"I don't," she wailed, and the cry was so wretched that Mac was forced to believe her.

-x0x-

**A/N: Missing Adam? Have no fear! Plenty of angst in the next chapter…**

**Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it!**


	12. Chapter 12

**THE STANDOFF**

**Chapter Twelve**

Tig's friend Niall was a stinky fellow. A layer of cheap aftershave hovered over a layer of sweat and unwashed clothing. Rather than masking the bad smell, the aftershave – _Hombre_ – only served to make it more pronounced. Don tried not to gag. Being this close to the man was a trial he wished he had spared himself. _Nice move, Detective,_ he sighed.

But Selena was smiling at him with those beautiful eyes, and that had to count for something, right?

_I saved the damsel but now I got stuck with the monster._

Don shifted uncomfortably. Taking someone hostage like this had never been his style. He was edging a little too close to the dark side and that made him nervous. At least he knew Mac Taylor was out there, taking charge. In an evening full of bad decisions, that urgent text was a shining exception. Hindsight could be hateful sometimes. _We should've called Mac right off the bat,_ Don thought, full of guilt. But Adam's tale had seemed so… outlandish. Paranoia, fuelled by beer and sadness. Oh yes, Don knew all about _that_. Deep down, he knew he had chosen to humour his friend, rather than taking him seriously. For that, he would always be sorry.

Moving his head brought on another wave of nausea, as he turned to stare regretfully at the crumpled body across the room. Even in his addled state, however, he could play 'spot the difference'.

Adam had fallen on his side. And now he was lying on his back.

Hope surged through Don in a powerful flood, almost paralysing him. Dead men didn't turn over! He had been far too hasty in his judgement of Adam's fate. Wonderful, stubborn man. _Hang in there, Ross, _he thought urgently. "Hey, you," he said to the creep with the gun, who was currently leering at Danny and his feisty new friend. "Tig, right? Mind if I make a suggestion…?"

-x0x-

Danny was tired of hiding behind Nemesis. Even here, in the bar, he was worse than useless. With one eye on Tig and the other on Don Flack, trapped by his own James Bond moment, Danny tried to weigh up his options and form some kind of plan.

Not easy, when Tig was giving him a death glare in return. There was no quick fix to this situation. Every scenario Danny considered led straight to his death – sometimes messy, sometimes quick, but always chillingly final. Much as he hated it, Nemesis (who had dragged him out here in the first place) was his only shield. Tig knew who he was, and that was bad. He knew who she was too – but what did that mean, exactly?

_Wish _I_ knew what was really goin' on here,_ Danny grumbled to himself – just as Flack began to speak. Danny cheered him on silently. _That's right, buddy. W__e got words, if nothin' else_. Maybe words could win the day and get them all out of here safely…

Maybe not.

"I'm not talkin' to you," Tig hissed angrily. "Not till you let Niall go."

"That's a little two-faced, don't you think?" Flack's challenge was bold, and potentially dangerous. Either he had the measure of Tig, or his sorry condition was making him reckless.

"Say _what_?"

"She called it." Flack nodded in the direction of Nemesis, letting his gaze connect with Danny for a split second as he did so. _Trust me,_ the look said. "We're at a standoff. No one's gonna give up their advantage – meanin' your guns and my smelly new friend here - but you can still help yourself, Tig. It's real easy."

"Don't tell me – release the hostages, right? Isn't that how the rule book goes? You're a cop, just like he is." Tig spat. "It's written all over your face."

"And your face is tellin' me all about you," Flack countered pleasantly, "but no. That's not what I'm talkin' about. Hear me out, okay?"

"Fine," was the sulky reply. "Give it your best shot, cop. I could do with a little entertainment. It's been pretty dull around here since I shot your friend…"

Danny stiffened. This verbal match between the two men was more deadly than a knife fight. One slip and there could be carnage. Tig gave a wolfish grin when he saw the flash of pain in Flack's eyes – but his opponent was made of sterner stuff than he realised.

"You'll pay for that later on," Flack said quietly. "Yes, he's my friend. He's also a scientist, just like he said… at the New York Crime Lab. That man you just spoke to? Mac Taylor? The guy who just might be your only chance to save your sorry ass from the fate it deserves? That man is his boss."

"'Was' his boss," Tig sneered. "Irrelevant."

Flack shook his head. "'Is' his boss. Adam's still alive and it's in your best interest to keep him that way. Let Danny go to him. Find out how badly he's hurt."

_Oh, beautiful, _Danny thought, full of admiration. If Tig agreed, then here was the chance he'd been longing for; the chance to _act_. Forcing himself not to interrupt, in case he pushed Tig in the wrong direction, he held his breath and tried to look innocent. Harmless. Helpful… _Come on, take the bait, you jerk,_ he urged.

"Tig, let them help," said the big man suddenly, his ugly features twisting in a grimace that was both urgent and full of doubt that Tig would heed him. "He was a nice man. You shouldn't've shot him."

A ripple of agreement ran through the seated crowd. Scattered in between the tables, they were listening intently – as though the fate of one lab rat could somehow affect them all, Danny realised, studying their faces. "You want Mac to help you," he offered finally, joining the conversation. Tig frowned. "Show him you're willing to play fair and do this small thing in return. Where's the harm in it?"

"I'm not gonna let your little pet go," Tig warned them. Danny's pulse quickened. The man was weakening. "If he's alive, all the better for me. I got a winning hand here. Five lucky cards…" Twisting the situation around, he tried to make it seem as though he was the instigator of Flack's plan. "Okay, Danny the Cop; you can sit with your _friend_. I don't reckon you'll do him much good, but that's not my concern. I'm the one who's been wronged here, and I'm gonna put things right."

A curious comment, and selfish beyond reason. Danny pulled free of Nemesis, who let him go without a challenge. On the contrary, her fingers stretched out and lingered on his hand for a moment, offering sympathy. "Thanks," he muttered, turning his back on Tig so the creep couldn't see his lips move. "Don't give in, alright? You're doin' great." Not strictly true, but her bravery deserved a little encouragement. And besides, if honesty was the issue here, who was to say that he wouldn't have done the same thing, in her place?

Picking his way through the jumble of legs as he made his way across the room, Danny let Tig's flamboyant speech play in his head on a short loop. What wrong had been done, exactly? What had been stolen, and how did Tig plan to 'set things straight'?

_Mac'll find out,_ Danny told himself finally, abandoning the puzzle (for a while, at least) as he reached his friend and sank down beside him.

Thank God.

Adam's breath was hitching in his chest and, aside from a fading palm print that spoke volumes about what had happened to him, his skin was even paler than it had been before this whole nightmare began – but his eyes were open and his gaze latched on to Danny with a look of absolute relief.

"Hey," Danny murmured.

"Oh – hey," said Adam. "I'm on the floor."

Top marks for stating the obvious. Danny smiled to see his friend's bewilderment and nodded. "Yes, you are."

Adam's expression grew dark as he lowered his voice to a whisper. "She's dead, Danny." There was a note of unbearable sorrow behind the quiet phrase.

"Looks that way." Danny kept it simple. Tuning out the world around him for a while, he gave Adam his full attention. Flack was behind him, and Flack would watch over the rest. "You're not, though. That's a good thing, buddy."

"You wouldn't say that if – _ow_ – you could feel what I feel," Adam grumbled hoarsely.

"Yeah." Danny grimaced. "You're bleeding…" Pulling off his own jacket, he leaned in to study the ragged hole that had left its ugly mark on Adam's body. Damn, he thought, the man was lucky. Whether by chance or design, Tig's bullet had missed all of Adam's vital organs, scoring a path through his shoulder instead, just below his collar bone.

'_Ow'_ indeed. But Adam could _feel_ the pain and, in Danny's experience, that was a good thing – right?

"I am." The comment was vague. Adam's eyes began to droop and he reached out his good arm to clutch Danny's sleeve with shaking fingers. "Danny… why?"

"Because that bastard shot you," Danny growled, for Adam's ears only. "Shot someone _through _you, it looks like… hey! Stay with me, buddy. Keep talkin', alright?"

"'Kay," Adam whispered obediently, fighting hard against a violent shiver. It made Danny ache to watch him struggle.

-x0x-

_Keep talking, _Danny had told him_…_ but talking was hard. Words became fireflies, flickering just out of reach. They led him astray and his mind followed willingly, seeking a refuge. Bubbles. He remembered bubbles – and a little girl clapping her hands with delight. That was safe; a memory without pain. Adam clung to it, smiling. "Lucy," he whispered. Yes, that was her name. A single, floating bubble loomed towards him. It popped against his shoulder, burning him like acid.

Adam closed his eyes and felt a single tear escape but he didn't whimper. Dogs and babies whimpered. _I don't want to be a baby…_

"Did you hit your head when you fell?" said a voice somewhere close to his ear. "Can you remember?"

Had he? The answer eluded him. Opening his eyes again, Adam stared at Danny's anxious face, so close to his own that it made him want to giggle. "I… no. Yes? Um, maybe…"

"Helpful, Adam; very helpful." His friend's tone was dry, almost mocking.

"I'm sorry," Adam told him earnestly. Everyone was mad at him these days, it seemed. Gathering his strength, he made as if to sit up but Danny pushed him back down, tucking his jacket behind Adam's head like a pillow. The zip was an awkward ridge against the back of his skull but the jacket itself was soft and warm.

"Better?"

"Yes, thank you…" It was nice to be taken care of.

"Okay. Look, Adam, I'm no doctor – _is _there a doctor here?" he added loudly. When no one answered him, Danny continued. "Guess not. So much for clichés, right? Anyhow, I'm gonna do my best to patch you up until we get you outta here." He paused, considering his words with care. "It's gonna hurt, I think. You should know that before I get started."

"Pain," Adam whispered. "Friend…"

"Of course I'm your friend," Danny told him firmly. "We're in this together now."

_Wait - that's not what I meant. _Adam longed to explain, but the concept was difficult. Pain was a part of life. You could fight it or make it your friend. It told you where the damage was, and let you know that you were still alive. It kept you company until the world was right again…

This time, the tears came swiftly; one, two, three. The world would never be right again.

_My mother is dead, _Adam thought, and for one dreadful moment he wished he could let go of everything, right here and now. _So easy..._

"Hey!" Danny nudged him sharply. "Adam. Where's your head at?"

_Far away,_ he sighed. "Sorry - I'm fine. Okay, Doctor Danny; do your worst." Humour was always the safest distraction – or so Adam thought.

With a nod that clearly said he wasn't fooled, Danny turned to glare at the man with the gun. "Any chance of some help here?"

"Don't push it," Tig grumbled.

It was hard to be reasonable when your jaw was tightly clenched. Adam gave a faint grin. So Danny knew him? Well, he knew Danny too. The man was bursting to say what he _really_ thought, yet somehow, he managed to keep his voice level. "I'm not. You want me to make him stable; I'm gonna need some supplies."

"There's a first aid kit behind the bar," said a female voice. _Selena…_ Stuck with his awkward vantage point, Adam couldn't see the barmaid but the memory of her lovely face made his fingers curl and his heart beat that little bit faster as she continued. "I could fetch it. Take it over to them…"

"No." Tig was adamant. "You could have a gun back there as well, for all I know. Marvin!"

"Yes, Tig?" There was an edge to the Giant's reply that Adam recognised at once. Fear, mingled with defiance. Marvin wasn't happy with the way that things were going; not one bit.

"Put that sulky lip away and make yourself useful, for once in your life."

"Okay… what'm I s'posed to do?"

Tig sighed in frustration. Adopting a highly superior tone, he began to spell out his order in words of very few syllables. Adam gave Danny a meaningful, wide-eyed stare. "Wedge," he breathed. "Between them, right?"

Danny nodded imperceptibly. _That's just what I was thinking,_ said the wicked gleam in his own bright blue eyes.


	13. Chapter 13

**THE STANDOFF**

**Chapter Thirteen**

Marvin carried the first aid kit in both hands, holding it out in front of him like a precious offering. He didn't know what was inside but he knew he was doing something good at last, and that made him feel much happier. This little box could help the kind man; of that, he was certain. At the back of Marvin's mind was a nasty voice that whispered to him without ceasing. _Everything is your fault,_ said the voice, and Marvin was inclined to agree. If he hadn't spoken to Adam and told him to leave, then Adam wouldn't have been next to the door, or tied to the chair, or shot…

Tig would be so angry if he knew.

_I ruined his plan, _Marvin sighed. _And I broke the kind man._ Well, at least that was one thing he could try to fix.

"Here you are," he said to Adam's friend, crouching down beside him. "The special box. Will it… will it make him better?"

"It won't make him any worse," the man replied. He studied Marvin carefully, with a deep look that was sharp and clever. "Want to help me?"

"Oh!" said Marvin. "Please." Checking over his shoulder, he saw that Tig was busy arguing with the angry girl; the one who had appeared out of nowhere. "Is she your girlfriend?" he asked, full of admiration, as he dropped heavily onto the floor and crossed his legs, waiting for further instructions.

"Is _who_ my…? Oh!" the man echoed. Marvin liked his smile. It was twisty but not in a bad way. "Nah – she's my nemesis…"

"I don't know what that is," Marvin confessed.

"Means she's a pain in…" The man grinned. "…My _neck_, if we're being polite here."

Marvin thought it through. The joke was slow in reaching him, but when it did, his smile was radiant. "I get it," he murmured. "You're funny."

"Don't… encourage him," said a husky voice.

Wide-eyed, Marvin stared at Adam – and beyond him to the old lady, sprawled on the floor like a broken doll. Her eyes were wide open too, but there was nobody inside her, peering out. She was empty. Marvin shuddered. "Is she dead? She looks dead. Why is _she_ dead, and not you? You've both got a hole in you."

"Guess Adam's stubborn," the twisty man said. It sounded like an insult but the look he gave his friend was full of sympathy.

"I don't… think Tig… meant to kill me." Adam's words were slow, as though he were thinking it through, just like Marvin. "He wanted me… to know that it… was _my_ fault. That she died because… of me."

Speaking was clearly an effort. His friend unlatched the first aid kit and began to rifle through the contents, muttering to himself. Meanwhile, Marvin sat and gaped at Adam. The kind man's face was whiter than the snow outside, and his pain-filled eyes were blue like the sky. _He's not ugly like me, _Marvin thought, _but we're still the same._ Guilt lived in both of them, tying them together with an invisible string. "Don't be sad for her," he murmured, leaning in so that Tig wouldn't catch his words. "She's in a good place now, with the angels."

Adam closed his eyes and turned his head away, with a tiny groan. "You don't know that."

"I do," Marvin told him brightly. "She's with my mother. When I die, I'm going there too – and so can you, if you're a good boy."

"Hear that, Adam?" said the twisty man, with one of his wonderful grins. "Have you been a good boy?"

"Don't mock me." Adam's voice was all wrong. His friend pulled back in surprise for a moment – and then began to cover his wound as though nothing had happened between them. His fingers were gentle and his manner was considerate. The wounded man had the grace to look ashamed. "Sorry, Danny," he muttered. "Not fair…"

_I don't understand,_ Marvin thought, feeling out of his depth and quite distressed. Looking down, he found that his hands had been filled with bandages, all tied up in soft little rolls. When did that happen?

"You're gonna be my nurse, okay?" said Danny, the twisty man. "I can't do this without you."

Hearing a nasty snort nearby, Marvin turned his head. A huddle of customers glared at him. Their eyes were full of hostility, and something more. Marvin had seen that 'something' every single day of his life.

"Take no notice of them," Danny muttered, reaching out to squeeze his arm. "Who's helpin' me? You, that's who. What good've _they_ done, I'd like to know?" He sent a scowl in their direction, loaded with meaning that they clearly understood, since they all dropped their gaze and looked rather uncomfortable.

Marvin's heart swelled. "Thank you," he said simply.

Danny nodded. "Bandage," he told Marvin. "Stat…"

-x0x-

_In the gloom of whiteness  
In the great silence of snow  
A child was sighing  
And bitterly saying: 'Oh,  
They have killed a white bird up there on her nest,  
The down is fluttering from her breast!'*_

Like a ghost from some distant place in her past, the words came to Camille as she stared through the window of Sheldon's apartment and watched the white flakes tumble past her to the ground far below. Their dance was hypnotic and terribly sad, though she could not say why.

A pair of arms crept around her from behind and she leaned in. "Nice," she murmured. "Thank you."

"It's my favourite place to be," Sheldon told her, smiling. She turned in his embrace and studied his cheerful expression.

"You don't feel it."

"Feel what?" He crinkled his eyes in good-humoured confusion.

Camille shook her head. "I don't know, Sheldon. Maybe I'm just being sensitive. There's something about the snow tonight… Like a weight pressing down on me. Like the city is starting to suffocate… You think I'm crazy," she accused him, smiling back. It was hard to stay blue in his company.

"I think you're incredible," he whispered, brushing her ear with his lips and making her shiver. She giggled.

"Flattery will get you everything you want, Doctor Hawkes."

"I know," he nodded, smugly. Without letting go, he began to steer her across the room in a dance that was both strong and tender, following the silent rhythm of the falling snow.

Camille laid a hand upon his chest.

"You've got your cell in your pocket, haven't you?" she murmured, trying not to giggle as the vibrations tickled her palm. "I think someone's calling you. Either that, or your heart is about to explode…"

Cursing, Sheldon pulled away; his every move reluctant as he reached for the offending article. His cell buzzed merrily, unaware of the trouble it was causing. Camille folded her arms and tried to compose her features. She knew exactly what was coming. Far too many nights had ended this way lately, with Sheldon full of apologies, and her own heart full of guilt at her selfish reaction. She had learnt to hide it well by now, but Camille was afraid. She did not know her own limit, and she was terrified that one day she would reach it. If that happened, would their relationship stand the test? Camille could only hope so.

"Wait," said Sheldon. "Slow down, Lindsay. What's the matter…?"

And just like that, her own worries shrivelled until they seemed petty and mean in the shadow of Sheldon's distress. Something was wrong. He looked sick to the stomach. She moved back in and held him tightly as he listened to the tiny, urgent voice on the other end. "Tell me where Mac wants me," he said at last – and Camille knew that, once again, he was going to leave.

But what did it matter? Surely she also knew that he would always come back to her? And she would be there waiting, for as long as it took.

Pressing a kiss to his cheek as a token of her understanding, she let the pale snow settle in her heart, blotting out her pain and turning everything to calm acceptance.

Maybe that had been its purpose all along.

-x0x-

Conditions outside were fast becoming intolerable. When Erin let slip, in a sullen yet pointed way, that she also owned three floors of office space above the bar, Mac nodded thoughtfully. He waved Morton over and stepped to the side, in order to speak with him. Lindsay watched their quiet conversation with interest. Now and then, the odd phrase floated back to the rest of the waiting group. '_Eyes and ears'_ was one. _'Snipers in position' _was another; words that filled her with foreboding. She knew the drill. She understood the need – but the icy chill that made her shiver had little to do with the snow, and everything to do with a heart-wrenching fear for the life of her husband.

_You're tougher than this,_ she told herself harshly. _Remember Shane Casey?_ There were just so many monsters in this world. And each time her precious little family was threatened, it grew harder to believe that they would come through unscathed. _We need him,_ Lindsay prayed fervently. _Please…_

Studying Morton, she wondered if he was a capable man. Mac seemed to trust him; that much was clear, and Lindsay had put her faith in Mac's gut instinct so many times before that it was easy to do so now. Besides, she liked Morton's face and his serious manner. Capable, then, she decided, and professional enough not to let his snipers fire into a crowded bar unless their options had been whittled down to one.

_I'll take my hope wherever I can get it…_

As the two men separated and Mac's group headed round the building to a side entrance that would give them access to the rooms above Leporello's, Lindsay took the opportunity to call Sheldon Hawkes and fill him in, since Jo was still keeping a close eye on Erin. She had offered to do so with no qualms at all and, somehow, she managed to keep her voice steady until she had finished delivering the bad news. Jo flashed her a look of sympathy and thanks that almost broke her, but she bit her lip and held it together, only turning away to hide her unshed tears when the call was over. Now she saw the virtue of the snow storm, as the wet flakes covered her shame and let her cling to her dignity. _Yes, with my fingernails, _she thought grimly – but that was enough, for now.

Morton had dispatched two members of his own team to accompany them. They carried several cases of equipment, and chattered to each other eagerly, discussing floorboards and fibre optics – by which she guessed that they were going to try and send a camera down through the basement ceiling, into the bar. The two young men were short and very similar in appearance, clad as they were in their full ESU gear, and so she dubbed them the Techno Twins for now, until she could learn their real names.

With Jo beside her, Erin led the way through an unremarkable door, and up a short flight of stairs, to a shadowy world of unoccupied office suites, littered with flimsy partitions that only served to make the soulless rooms feel even more forlorn. "It's a rental space," she explained. "Suitable for a wide range of businesses."

"Save it," Mac said shortly. "I'm not your realtor."

Passing into an office that still bore the nameplate: _Henrietta Schliemann, Acquisitions, _Erin turned to face the group and swept out her arms in a broad gesture. "Here we are. The bar is right below us. Will that suit your purpose, Detective Taylor? I've no great fondness for the carpet - feel free to make as many holes as you please."

Mac looked disgruntled. The Techno Twins grinned cheerfully and set down their gear as they scanned their surroundings.

_She was listening too,_ Lindsay thought, awarding Erin points for both cheek and deductive reasoning. Now they were out of the snow storm, Ms. Baker was fast recovering her aplomb, though her face still bore a waxy hue and her eyes were tight. Lindsay suspected that she might be nursing a migraine, or some kind of stress-induced headache. She found herself pitying the woman, and quickly brushed the feeling aside. _Stay focussed, _she thought. _You don't know who you're dealing with here; not really._

Erin smoothed her wet hair into a sleek cap against her skull and folded her arms. "I've been thinking," she told them.

"I thought you might have been," Jo muttered. Mac gave her a look, half amusement, half warning, and she pulled a face in return that was somewhere to the left of an apology. It seemed to Lindsay that Erin was watching the whole exchange carefully, taking mental notes. After a long beat, she tilted her head to the side.

"Shall I continue?"

Her condescending manner was guaranteed – or calculated - to ruffle Mac's feathers. He glared at the woman. "Of course. That's why we're here. You're telling me you know what this is all about?"

"I'm telling you I might have an inkling." Unfolding one of her arms, she studied her long dark nails. Her attitude went way beyond infuriating. By this time, Lindsay was bristling too, and Jo's fingers were twitching as though she longed to grab that arm of Erin's and twist it behind her back, forcing her to skip all this posturing.

"Get to the point," Mac growled. His sharp words had the same effect.

Erin nodded. "Very well. But remember – you agreed. Immunity, for me and my girls when this is all over." She glanced at the door behind them. "That man downstairs. He thinks I have something that ought to belong to him. Of course, he's mistaken… but I might know why. I run… a secondary business."

"Colour me surprised," Jo whispered, moving to stand beside Lindsay in a less than subtle effort to remove temptation from her grasp.

"We… acquire things – _valuable_ things – for our clients. Our very wealthy, very _private_ clients. You understand, I can't give you any names." Was it Lindsay's imagination, or did Erin appear slightly nervous?

"You're a thief," Mac summarised, breaking down her explanation into its simplest terms.

"Not a word that I would use, precisely," Erin sniffed. "Creative redistribution is what we like to call it."

Jo pointed to the nameplate on the door. "You're Henrietta Schliemann."

"Erin Baker. Erin Adler. That's quite a few names for one woman to handle. Got any more we should know about?" Mac queried, acid in his tone.

"Erin will do, Detective. And Baker is my real name; you can waste more time checking if you don't believe me. The rest are fictional, it's true, but useful in my line of work."

"So what did you take?" Growing tired and frustrated, Lindsay cut to the chase. "What's got these people so riled up, they would risk everything just to retrieve it?"

"It's an embarrassment, really." Erin held her gaze with renewed composure that was at odds with her confession. "We planned the job so carefully and pulled it off without a hitch, until…"

"Until?" Mac prompted.

"Until we reached the lobby. That was when _he_ threatened us. He stole the item at gunpoint but his friend was there too and they started to argue. We took our chance and slipped away. I don't like guns, detective," Erin explained. "Never use them myself, though I must admit that one of my girls can be a little trigger happy from time to time. We left the two men wrangling. That's the last I saw of the item."

"It's an interesting story," Jo remarked. "A little light on details, though. What item? What lobby? What man? Seems to me, those things are important – don't you agree?"

Erin sighed. "You're right. It's just… in my line of work, trust is only reserved for your team."

"Your team is trapped inside the bar right now. They're trusting _you_ to get them out of there," Mac said with feeling. Lindsay knew that he was drawing the obvious parallel in his mind, as was she.

The thief considered. "Yes," she said at last. "You're absolutely right. What item? A sceptre that once belonged to the Romanovs. It bears the royal crest and it's made of solid gold, encrusted with jewels. Quite remarkable, really. What lobby? The entrance to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where they're currently hosting a grand exhibit of Russian regalia." She smirked briefly. "Very well protected, though I say so myself. It would take ... a _singular _person to 'acquire' even the smallest gem from the smallest crown in that beautiful collection."

None of the stern-faced people around her showed any signs of being impressed. "What man?" Jo pressed her urgently. "Who has the sceptre now?"

"I'm sorry, Detectives," Erin said, with true regret. "I honestly have no idea. I wish I _did_ know. His clumsy interference cost me a small fortune, and will probably make quite a dint in my reputation."

Something was stirring; a memory, deep in Lindsay's mind. She tried to place it; her excitement growing. "The sceptre bore a crest, you said? Is there a crown in the Romanov coat of arms?"

To her surprise, and Erin's disbelief, it was Mac who answered. "Yes – at the top, in the middle."

"Then I've seen it," Lindsay said triumphantly. "And I know where your thief is; well, one of them, anyway. He's in the morgue, with Sid. He's my John Doe!"

-x0x-

**A/N: ****I've had a lot of lovely guest reviews for this story and, since I can't reply to them in person, let me say 'thank you' right here!**

**I hope you all enjoyed this update. If you're a Flack fan, rest assured that he will feature in the next chapter.**

*** The quote is taken from the poem 'Snow' by Edward Thomas.**


	14. Chapter 14

**THE STANDOFF**

**Chapter Fourteen**

Don was no fan of the waiting game – and neither, it seemed, was Tig. Having issued his ultimatum, and aimed a few rude comments in the general direction of Danny's new friend (who gave as good as she got, much to Don's amusement), the hostage-taker fell into a deep funk and started pacing backwards and forwards, paying little heed to the seated captives all around him. His gun never faltered, however, and neither did that of the young woman, who kept a vigilant eye on her foe, just as a mongoose watches a deadly cobra, right before he takes it down.

"Who is she?" Don whispered to Selena. The elegant barmaid had seated herself on the dirty floor, crossing her legs in a schoolgirl manner that surprised him. He was glad of her company, but also very afraid that there was going to be trouble in store for her if Tig didn't get the answer he wanted from Mac. _Yeah, trouble all around,_ he sighed, glancing across the room. Poor Adam was starting to resemble an Egyptian mummy – Danny was taking no chances, it seemed – but he was _alive_, and that was a miracle in Don's book. The giant sat beside them, troll-like. Was it Don's imagination, or did he look strangely pleased with himself?

Selena considered her answer carefully before opening her mouth. "Her name is Mary. She works here too."

"As a bouncer?"

"No." Selena grinned. "She works the bar, just like me. Though she has… other talents."

"I see that. And you?"

"I am as I appear to be," the woman told him in a husky undertone.

"Somehow I doubt that." Don felt confused. Was she trying to flirt, here and _now_, for heaven's sake? Or was her warmth a kind of subterfuge, meant to throw him off balance? He blushed without meaning to, as he recalled his own clumsy attempt and the chaos that had followed. "Ouch," he sighed, half regretful, half in earnest. What he wouldn't give for some Tylenol.

_Stop complaining. At least they didn't shoot you._

In his lap, Niall shifted. Oh yes; things were about to get ugly, Don thought. _Real_ ugly – Niall was no oil painting, after all.

"Keep still," he hissed.

"Mmf-hmf." Mr. Stinky's mumble meant that he was already fighting his way back to consciousness. Don tightened his grip on the man's chest, and tried not to think about the way his sweaty palm was slipping around the stem of his makeshift weapon, or the ache in his arm as he struggled to maintain his uncomfortable position. If Niall should break free, the balance of power would tip once again, with dreadful repercussions, and that was something Don could not allow.

"Don't let go," Selena hissed, abandoning her seductive tone altogether as she watched in dismay with those deep dark eyes of hers.

"Ya think?" Damn, he was tired; so tired… Don's head fell back and he gazed at the ceiling in mute appeal to the deity who watched over foolish cops that were so far out of their depth, they were practically drowning. _And now I'm seeing spots,_ he sighed. _Fantastic._

Wait…

Like a miniature snowstorm, a delicate mist of white particles fell from above. They landed on Niall's head and mingled with the white flakes that were already lurking there. _Dandruff disguise,_ Don thought dizzily. Dropping his gaze – _ow!_ – he tried to keep one sneaky eye on the hole that was slowly appearing above him. Even in his slightly addled state, he knew what was going on.

Mac was up there, installing a camera.

_Score one for our team._ Inside, Don was cheering. On the outside, he tried to maintain a calm expression – which became difficult when Niall awoke with an angry roar, making everyone's head swivel. _Don't look up, _he warned himself. Perversely, the temptation was enormous.

"Get your freakin' hands off me!" Niall demanded.

"You know," Don said with an air of great wisdom, "you'd get more out of life if you learned to ask nicely."

"I doubt it," growled his captive. "So what, then? I say 'please' and you let me go, jus' like that?"

Don considered. "No," he agreed. "You're right. I think I'll keep my 'freakin' hands' exactly where they are for now."

"Tig," Niall pleaded, whining like a child who wanted his own way and couldn't get it. "Help me out here."

_Yes Tig, _Don thought smugly as the man with the gun stopped pacing. _Step into the frame and smile – 'cause you're on Candid Camera…_

-x0x-

Sid was surprised to see Sheldon Hawkes. He glanced at the clock on the wall of his office and then at the face of his friend, which was far from sanguine.

"Forgive my presumption, Doctor Hawkes," he said, setting down his china mug with more than a hint of regret. So much for that peaceful five minutes he ordered. "Weren't you supposed to be…?"

"_Oh_ yes," Sheldon interrupted, punctuating his remark with a heartfelt sigh. He was restless and ill at ease; hardly the demeanour of a man who had just been on a date with a beautiful woman. His next words confirmed Sid's suspicion that something was very wrong. "This is all my fault, Sid. Want to know the last thing I said as I left? No emergencies, please; just for _one_ night. Looks like I jinxed it – but _I'm _the one who got off lucky in the end. Danny asked me to go and I laughed, Sid; I actually laughed in his face. A night with Camille or a night getting drunk with the guys? No contest." He narrowed his dark eyes and studied Sid carefully. "Wait - you don't know?"

"I'm afraid not." It had been a long day. Sid was weary and a petulant reply hovered on his lips, like a wicked temptation, but he could tell from his friend's body language that now was certainly not the time to start being selfish. Swallowing hard, he resumed. "You look a little freaked, as Danny might say. It's bad, isn't it?" He used the word with a great deal of hesitation. _Bad_ could mean so many things in this line of work. "Tell me quickly…"

"…Like ripping off a band aid," Sheldon finished. "Okay, Sid." As the CSI outlined the situation in short, stark sentences that only made it feel worse, somehow, Sid grabbed the edge of a nearby counter for support. He could hardly believe his ears.

"Do you all go out there just _looking_ for trouble?" he sighed. "No, don't answer that; it's rhetorical. Tell me what you need instead. You do _need_ something, don't you?" _Please say yes,_ he added silently, pleading with his eyes instead. Action was the enemy of Fear and the only way to counter it, in his experience.

"John Doe," Sheldon replied. His urgency was making Sid feel breathless.

"Really? Which one? At this precise moment, I have three Does in residence; two Johns and one rather gothic Jane, who lost her extremities – and her life, of course – in a wishing well, of all things. Clearly the well was broken, or she could have wished her way out in a heartbeat…" Sid tried to ease the tension with a joke, even though he had already tried it out on three separate people, with little success. One of those was Mac, of course, but the others were Adam and Danny, of whom he had expected more.

Sheldon didn't even crack a smile. "This John Doe would be the one you introduced to Lindsay."

As a self-confessed student of human nature, Sid could always tell when he was being interrupted on purpose. "You know, Doctor Hawkes," he persisted as he led the way to the main examination room, abandoning his drink altogether. "I can remember a time when you yourself had a fine regard for morbid conversation."

"M.E.'s prerogative," Sheldon nodded. He still maintained his serious expression but this time, there was a slight twinkle in his eye.

"Part of the training, in fact, or at least it was in my day. Did they drum that out of you when you became a CSI, or was it a personal choice?"

"Very funny. Can you imagine Mac's face if I prefaced every single report with some kind of wacky anecdote? Come to think of it, you've seen the way he looks at Adam… You're the only one charming enough to slip those stories past him, Doctor Hammerback."

"Why, thank you, Doctor Hawkes." Sid was relieved to see that his unwitting 'patient' was looking more relaxed. Stopping in the doorway, he waved an elegant hand towards their subject, who was laid out on the farthest table, waiting to be 'put to bed'. "Flattery will always get you what you're looking for."

Sheldon's smile was bright and unexpected. "So I've heard."

"And recently, too, I suspect." Sid raised an eyebrow in return. It wasn't hard to fathom Sheldon's meaning. Sid had met Camille, and liked her very much indeed. "You're a lucky man."

"Change the subject, Sid," his friend suggested, blushing in a way that told Sid his arrow had hit the mark. With a chuckle, the M.E. obliged.

"So, this John Doe. What do you need to know about him?"

"Just give me everything you've got." They reached the table together and stared at the neatly stitched corpse who had already taken up the better part of Sid's evening. "For instance, what makes him a John Doe in the first place? He still has all his… extremities."

Strangely pleased by Sheldon's subtle acknowledgement of his joke, Sid lifted the victim's hand and turned it over. "Superglue," he explained, as Sheldon leaned in to peer at John Doe's fingertips. "It isn't there now, of course. I took it off with an acetone solution, and sent the prints up to the lab half an hour ago. Each fingertip was neatly covered, like a second skin. Hard to say how long the glue had been there, but I'm thinking several hours at least."

"So he wanted to avoid leaving tell-tale prints," Sheldon mused out loud. "Which makes our guy… what? A thief?"

"That would be my educated guess. He was wearing dark clothes and soft-soled shoes; the outfit-du-jour for a spot of late night larceny." Sid scowled at the corpse. "You think he took something important?"

"According to Lindsay's latest update, a Russian sceptre, straight from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. That's what put her on to him – she said you found a particular mark on his hand? Like a crown?"

"Yes, indeed." Dropping the right hand and lifting the left one, Sid demonstrated. Once more, Sheldon leaned in. "I took several photographs. You should be able to confirm if the two crowns match. But this man wasn't found at the Museum, or even close by. If he _is_ our guy then someone took great care to remove him from the scene and dump him far away."

"How far?"

"Hell's Kitchen," Sid told him, frowning. "Outside the Church of the Holy Cross. A rather unpleasant surprise for the priest who found him, I imagine."

Sheldon straightened up. "Looks like this is a day for unpleasant surprises."

"Then I hope we've had the last one." Sid's reply was emphatic. He was unprepared for Sheldon's theatrical groan of dismay.

"Now who's going to jinx it, Doctor Hammerback?"

-x0x-

Mac studied the screen with interest. Jo and Lindsay stood on either side of him, their arms folded and their faces solemn.

"We got lucky," Jo observed. "Great view. Though it looks like Flack has his hands full."

Lindsay muttered something grim. Mac couldn't catch the words but he guessed her meaning. He pitied the hostage takers if they should happen to fall into _her _hands when this was over - or his own, for that matter...

"Can you freeze this image and send it to the lab?" he said to Morton's technician. "We need to run facial recognition. The more we know about these guys, the stronger our advantage."

"Oh, I can do more than that," grinned the young man, wrinkling his snub nose and rubbing his palms together in anticipation. "You wanna play 'hunt the perp'?" His fingers moved at a frantic speed – even Adam couldn't type that fast, Mac thought in amazement – and the camera angle shifted. "Now we got two… no, wait; make that three."

"That's not a 'perp'," said Erin's voice behind them. "That's Mary."

"One of your 'girls'," Jo said evenly.

"Danny's new friend. No, I'm not jealous," Lindsay continued. "My husband never responds well to women who hold a gun on him."

"Because that happens all the time…?" said the tech, with a raised eyebrow. "Maybe I'm in the wrong team." His wide smile said that he was joking. Over by the hole in the floor, in a nest of wires and equipment, his colleague gave a shrug.

"You'll get used to Freddie's humour," he apologised. "Always inappropriate and rarely clever."

"Sounds like most of your dates," Freddie quipped. "Sorry," he continued, flushing when he saw the look on Mac's face. "Sam's right. Bad timing - awful habit. Won't happen again, sir."

Mac shook his head. "Don't apologise. You just remind me of someone, that's all. Can you move this thing any further?"

"How far?" Freddie was all business now. "The camera's pretty flexible. As long as no one spots it, we can twist it any which way but loose…" He tried out a shy smile, which Jo returned. Mac was too busy watching the monitor to respond.

"There!" he said, stabbing his finger at the glass. "By the door. It's Adam - there he is!"

"And Danny too." Lindsay breathed a sigh of relief. "Still in one piece."

Deep inside Mac, something cracked and a warm glow of happiness spread through his body. _Not dead,_ he thought to himself, and the world seemed bright again. Adam may be quirky – irritating, even - but the thought of losing such a warm-hearted person from the lab, and from their lives, had been like a dark cloud covering the sun. Now the cloud had shifted.

"Thank the Lord." Jo's smile was radiant.

Mac added his own silent prayer of gratitude, just as his cell phone began to ring. "Sheldon. News?" he said gruffly, trying to mask the intensity of his emotion.

"Good, I hope," the doctor replied. "Sid managed to lift a set of prints and I just spoke to the tech who ran them. We got a name."

"Tell me." Mac held up a hand for silence as he put the phone on speaker.

"No wonder the guy hid his prints, Mac. He features on just about every criminal database we have access to, here at the lab. Interpol, ATF, FBI… They'll be very disappointed when they hear about his death. Talk about a career-maker. Theodore Unger," Sheldon continued, anticipating Mac's impatient prompt by a millisecond. "That's his name. What are you going to do, now you have it?"

Mac stared at the screen and the two men directly in view; one down, one doing his best to look after his friend in impossible circumstances. Then he looked at Lindsay and his words, though spoken to Sheldon, were aimed in her direction.

"Now?" he said firmly. "I'm going to get everyone out."

-x0x-

**A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. More soon...**


	15. Chapter 15

**THE STANDOFF**

**Chapter Fifteen**

"You're finished, right?" Adam whispered hopefully as Danny sat back on his heels and admired his handiwork.

"For now." Grinning down at his friend, Danny murmured the obvious. "You look like…"

"… the Mummy; I know. Did you have to use…" Adam paused to catch his breath. "… so many bandages?"

"Hey – who's the acting medical officer for this landing party?" Danny demanded, shifting pop culture worlds with a carelessness that made Adam wince.

"You, I guess – so what does that make me? The guy in the red shirt? That's a really great… bedside manner you got there, Messer."

"No bed," Danny corrected him smugly. "No bedside manner required."

_I know what you're doing,_ Adam thought. He could read the truth about their situation in Danny's eyes but, for the sake of his sanity, he chose to ignore it and play along. "Think Scotty'll beam us out of here any time soon?"

"Transporter malfunction." As he spoke, Danny cast a shrewd glance around the room. "We done with this metaphor yet?" he quipped softly.

"Oh yeah. Can I sit up?"

"No way."

"You didn't even… think about it!" Adam knew he was whining but he felt entitled. He tried to regulate his breathing, all too aware that his hesitant speech wasn't helping his cause. "Look, I'm fine, Danny; honest. You did a bang-up job, you and Marvin." Maybe he could get the Giant on his side. Marvin's mouth was hanging open slightly as he followed their quiet discussion with a furrowed brow and an air of deep concentration.

"Yeah," Danny scoffed, "'cause these are magic bandages that'll make your _gunshot wound_ disappear." He stressed the words with sudden anger. "Adam, you gotta be careful. I know, okay? Trust me."

"I know too." Had he hurt his friend? That wasn't his intention and it filled him with regret. "I'm sorry, Danny. But please, I can't stay down here. I need to _see_…"

Grudgingly, Danny appeared to consider. "And you'll tell me if the pain gets too bad?"

"Life is pain." The words came out of nowhere; Adam's father speaking through his own dry lips. _Life is pain. Get on with it._ Danny glared down at him in shock.

"That's a terrible sentiment. You really think that?"

"No," Adam backtracked. "No, of course not. I don't know what made me… Look, Danny, just help me up, okay? I'll lean on the table leg; it's fine. You can trust me."

Equally stubborn, they stared at each other; a silent battle of wills. In the end, much to Adam's surprise, it was Danny who caved. "Come on, then," he muttered. "I get it. Let's do this."

Reaching down, he slipped his arm beneath Adam's unbound shoulder and began to lift. Adam tried to help but the sudden shift in altitude and the arc of pain across his body sent his mind spiralling out of control, seeking shelter. Cut off from reality, he drifted…

_Life is pain…_

"_Life is pain," Brian Ross told his brother. "That's what Dad used to say all the time – remember?"_

_Adam's father nodded slowly. His borrowed mourning suit hung loosely and seemed to diminish him somehow. Shrinking in upon himself, he had the owl-eyed look of a child in distress. Adam had never seen him so bewildered._

"_I spy your youngest." Brian continued, studying the pale faces lining the dark pews. When he met Adam's bleak expression, he lingered for a single, sympathetic moment and then moved on. "Charlie couldn't make it?"_

"_He's in Miami." Roused from his stupor, Adam's father squared his shoulders and faced his brother properly at last. "Got his own company." Boasting was a ritual, and rituals were meant to bring you comfort. Adam had rituals too. As he listened to his father sing Charlie's praises, even though the man hadn't even deigned to attend his own mother's funeral, Adam ran his thumb across his fingers, over and over, counting in binary code._

"_And Mary?"_

"_New Zealand." Charles Ross shook his head. "She called… Ask Adam. He talks to her." This time, his words held a bitterness that he couldn't hide from his brother. _

_Or maybe he just doesn't care, Adam thought. Mary was his sister and he wished with all his heart that she was not so far away. Keeping a tiny space beside him on the pew, he tried to pretend she was there, leaning on his shoulder._

"_Life is pain," Adam's father continued in a small, grey voice as he shrank back into himself. And then, suddenly: "Brian. Where's Harriet?"_

_Adam shivered. She's dead, he thought fiercely. She's dead and now you're alone. Serves you right…_

_But he couldn't stay angry for long. This wasn't the time or the place. He was here to say goodbye and, when the day was over, he could leave just like Mary; leave and never come back. After all, his true family was waiting for him in New York._

"_Sit here with me," Charles Ross said to his brother. "There's plenty of room."_

_The shiver turned into a cold sense of dread, which filled Adam's heart. Uncle Brian had already stepped away in search of his own wife and children. Charles was talking to the empty air._

"_Dad," Adam whispered, "he's gone. It's just you and me here, okay? Look, the service is starting – we have to be quiet."_

"_Thank you." His father turned and smiled at him meekly with a stranger's eyes. "You always were a good brother, Brian."_

_Brian._

_Adam…_

"Adam," hissed an urgent voice in his ear. He tried to brush away the irritating noise but his plan was thwarted by the fact that his arm was pinned to his side.

"Wha…?"

"Okay, that's better. You scared me, buddy. Don't keep zoning out like that or you'll be back on the floor before you know it. Kapish?"

"Kapish…" he echoed wearily. "I'm good…"

"Yeah, you look it." Danny really was an expert when it came to sarcasm. He had a way of exaggerating his disapproval that made Adam's toes curl.

Marvin's face loomed closer, filling Adam's fuzzy vision. "I thought you were dead again," he said conversationally. "Where did you go?"

"Don't ask," Adam groaned, and the Giant drew back in surprise. "No, look – that's not what I meant. I just… fainted, okay?" Such a manly word. He flushed and pulled away from Danny's supporting arm. "I'm up, I'm awake and I'm staying that way. Tell me, what did I miss?"

"Not much," Danny grumbled. "I hate waiting."

"So does my brother," Marvin put in, watching the angry man, who was currently scowling at Don Flack and his reluctant prisoner. How on earth had the detective managed to get himself into such an awkward position?

_Turns out I missed quite a bit,_ Adam thought, wishing Danny would be more forthcoming. "He's your brother, then? Tig?"

"All my life," Marvin said simply. He shuffled his bottom uncomfortably. "Do we have to stay on the floor?"

"Ask your _brother_," Danny grumbled. When Marvin's hand began to rise, the detective shook his head in disbelief. "I'm kidding…"

"Tig told us to stay down, remember?" Adam explained with a little more patience. He could see the look of deep confusion in the Giant's eyes and it made him feel sad.

"Oh! Okay. Thank you, Adam," Marvin whispered. He lowered his voice even further. "Is the twisty man cross with me too?"

_The twisty man…_ Adam had to smile. The image was hilarious. "Danny always sounds like that," he said with perfect innocence. "Don't take any notice."

Danny opened his mouth to issue an appropriate retort but before he could defend himself against Adam's cheerful slander, a familiar sound caught their ears; the ring of his own cell phone, in Tig's pocket. "I guess the wait is over," he said warily. "The Enterprise is calling…"

"Let's hope they fixed the transporter," Adam breathed.

-x0x-

The view was compelling.

Mac stared down at the screen, and the reckless little man who was threatening a room full of terrified people. Such an ill-conceived plan – and yet it was working. _The endgame is mine, though,_ Mac swore to himself, filled with a childish urge to reach out and squash the tiny figure beneath his thumb. He held back, for dignity's sake, but even the thought itself provided some small measure of release for his pent up frustration. "Don't push it," he muttered, listening to the endless dialling tone as it buzzed in his ear. "You've got my attention but I'm not a patient man. There are other, less civilised ways we can play this."

Down below, Don Flack glanced up and Mac could have sworn, for a split-second, that the detective was looking straight at him. Peering more closely, he grinned to himself; a tight grin of triumph. "I see you," he whispered. "And you see me. Hang in there, Don; we're coming for you."

"Hello, Mac Taylor," said a lazy voice in his ear, and he realised with a start that his attention had wandered a little too freely.

Mac's voice was grave as he replied, and his words were careful. "Hello. Are you ready to talk?"

"If you've got something useful to say," the man responded rudely, his voice filling the room upstairs as Mac reactivated the speaker on his phone.

"I have."

"You have. Just like that? 'Cause you know, if it ain't what I'm waiting to hear then you got yourself a big problem."

"You'll want to hear this," Mac said, drawing patience from his silent colleagues and using it to hold back the anger that roiled inside him. Jo's dark eyes were solemn. Lindsay was white-faced, but fully in control of her emotions. They trusted him, and so did the three men trapped below. The thought was bright and terrifying at the same time. "I have Adler," he continued. "She's right here with me."

"_She_?"

"You didn't know?" Mac countered smoothly, enjoying the man's shock. Down below, Don raised an eyebrow. Following a one-sided conversation could be tricky but Mac suspected that Don was sharp enough to fill in the blanks, based solely on the man's reaction. "Then I've told you one thing for free. The rest of my information comes at a price, I'm afraid, and if you can't meet it… I think it's fair to say you'll be the one with a problem." He held his breath, waiting anxiously. How would the angry man respond to his challenge?

Snatching the cell from his ear, the hostage-taker stomped up and down for a moment or two, trapped within the range of Mary's gun. She watched him silently, as did Mac and the others upstairs. Whatever happened next could decide the fate of many.

"Come on," Lindsay breathed behind him, unable to contain herself after all. "This is what you wanted…"

"Tell me your price," said the man, at last. "I don't say I'm willing to meet it but we can negotiate. That's what you do, right? We both got some…_thing_ the other wants." He gave a nasty laugh. "More than one something in here, Mac Taylor, and all of them waitin' to see what you got. Better make it good. I'm a hard man to please."

"As am I," Mac told him. "Very well. I'll give you the information you asked for, and a chance to talk with Adler, if you let a significant number of the hostages go, right now. You don't need them all."

The pause that followed was the longest minute Mac had ever known.

"You're right," his foe said pleasantly. "I was thinking the same thing myself, as it happens."

Lindsay's eyes grew wide with hope but Jo frowned, full of suspicion at this easy victory.

"I get to pick," the man continued.

"My girls," Erin hissed, from across the room. "Tell him to release my girls or he can kiss the deal goodbye. I'll not talk to him unless they're free."

Mac held up his hand for silence. His glare was not unkind. Deep down, he felt the same way about his own people but he knew exactly where this conversation was leading. As he had feared, his first victory was also a sacrifice. Knowing he had no choice and yet hating himself, he replied: "You can pick." It was hard to meet Erin's eye as he continued. "But an injured man is no good to you. Let him out with the others, and you've got a deal."

"An injured man. _Your_ man." The hostage-taker gave another ugly laugh. "Yes, you'd like that, wouldn't you? But I said it before – I got five winning cards in my hand and I'm thinking they're the ones I'm gonna keep."

"You selfish…" Erin tried to push her way through to Mac and grab his cell phone but Jo held her back.

"Trust him," Mac heard his colleague whisper. "He won't abandon your girls. You have _my _word on that."

A scornful voice from the room below claimed their attention. "'_Keep_'," it said, loud enough to carry. "You're not keeping _me_. I've got _you_, and I'm not going anywhere."

They all stared down at Mary's image on the screen as she gripped her gun firmly in both hands and drew herself up to look more intimidating. "Oh, God," Erin moaned. "You silly child. Be careful…" Like air from a balloon the fury left her, and she wilted in Jo's arms.

Distraction was imperative before they lost what little ground they had gained. Mac needed to maintain at least the illusion of control - he could not let the man's attention shift at this crucial point. "When I've told you everything," he continued, as though Mary had never spoken, "_then_ you'll let the others go. All of them."

Once more, a pause.

"Of course," the man said easily, daring them to disbelieve him.

-x0x-

The blast of winter air was a harsh intruder. A flurry of curious snowflakes blew through the open doorway but they could not survive in the warmth, and they never reached Adam. He watched them sink to the floor and fade away. _Like hope,_ he thought sadly, and then berated himself for being so selfish.

No one wanted to be first in line. They stared at the gateway to freedom and then at Tig, waiting for the moment when he laughed in their faces and withdrew his promise. Adam could hardly blame them. There was already one body in the room, stark proof that the hostage-taker was dedicated to his cause, or crazy – or both. Only Danny stood his ground; one hand on the doorknob as he shivered in the cold. Tig's gamble was cunning; he guessed the man would never leave his injured friend and so here was the perfect servant to open the door for him. If looks could kill, or even maim, then Tig would have been in serious trouble. Sadly, Danny's bitter gaze had no such power.

Tig revelled in the moment. "How sweet," he declared to his captives. "You don't want to leave me. Guess I'll have to call back and make a new deal…"

His armed opponent shook her head in disbelief. "Come on, you cowards," she urged. "The door is open. You need to leave. What on earth are you waiting for?"

Warily, a young woman rose to her feet, smoothing down the wrinkles in her elegant cocktail dress. She took three hesitant steps towards the exit, watched by a roomful of anxious faces. When nothing happened to stop her, she broke into a stumbling run. Snowflakes swirled around her as she fled into the night and disappeared.

"Who's next?" Tig demanded and the sweaty business man, Jerry, raised his hand. "Oh, very polite. This ain't school, okay? You don't need a hall pass. Get outta here; go on. I'm a reasonable man."

Someone snorted over by the bar. Adam had no doubt that it was Flack.

One by one, the hostages began to leave, first in a trickle and then in an eager line, like impatient children queuing for a treat. They steered well clear of Tig and his opponent, edging round the side of the room. No sense in chancing fate when their ordeal was almost over.

"Bye bye," Marvin told them happily, earning a sharp look from his brother that made his head droop and his cheerful spirit falter.

As the last man in line left the bar, Tig motioned for Danny to close the door. Emptiness was all around them. Adam knew he ought to be glad for the other hostages but what he really felt was dread, and a sense of exposure.

Tig lifted the cell phone to his ear. "Now," he said to Mac, who had been listening the whole time. "Let's get down to business. I kept my end of the deal, okay, so you gotta keep yours."

It was easy to imagine Mac's face. Adam watched with bated breath, wishing he could hear the other side of the conversation. Meanwhile, Danny slipped back to his side and gave him a comforting grin. "Mac did good," he whispered. "I'm bettin' we're next."

"Me too." Adam's words were positive but, inside, he was full of fear – and with good reason, it seemed. The gun in Tig's hand began to shake and his face grew first white, then pink, then a furious red. What on earth was Mac telling him?

"No," he growled suddenly. "I don't believe it. You're lying!"

Pause. Did Mac know how badly his words had affected the man? Was he trying to calm him down?

Tig stepped forward and threw down the phone. With a hand that was suddenly, eerily steady, he fired at the girl with the gun and a neat, red hole appeared in her forehead.

"Oh!" she gasped, and fell in a heap, stone-dead, as her own weapon skittered across the floor.

-x0x-

**A/N: In the next chapter – Flack encounters a 'small' problem and we find out why Tig is so angry…**

**Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the update.**


	16. Chapter 16

**THE STANDOFF**

**Chapter Sixteen**

For the first few seconds, nobody moved. Even Tig faltered this time, his cocky bravado slipping, as though he could not quite believe that things had gone so far. His eyes were red and his hands were shaking. "What's _wrong_ with you?" Danny demanded, hoping to knock him so far off balance that he lost his nerve entirely.

Unfortunately, his words had the opposite effect. Nettled by the challenge, Tig scowled. His face grew hard and Danny knew that he was past his little guilt trip. This was bad; so very bad.

The only thing that could even the odds lay meekly on the floor between them, just out of reach. Nemesis had dropped her gun and now the race was on to claim it. Adam was out of the game, as was Don and his captive. Selena was sobbing into her hands, and Marvin had frozen completely. _Guess it's on me, then,_ Danny thought, tensing like a cowboy in some kind of twisted duel where the gun was the ultimate prize. He glared at Tig, who gave a truculent sneer in return, daring him to make the first move.

_Three… two…_

Both men lunged forwards; Tig in an awkward scramble and Danny in a reckless slide. Since he was already on the floor, he should have had the advantage – but something latched onto his ankles, holding him tightly, and he couldn't… quite… make his fingers reach the gun.

Dammit!

Slowing to a halt, his enemy bent down and picked it up in a slow, deliberate manner that drove Danny wild.

"Thank you, Marvin," Tig said.

Danny twisted onto his side and stared back at the giant man, who couldn't decide whether he was delighted or filled with shame. His smile was wide but his eyes were wary. As he let go of Danny's ankles, he shot an apologetic glance in Adam's direction.

"He's my brother, okay?" Marvin whispered, and Danny saw Adam nod silently, granting the man his forgiveness.

_That's all well and good, but I'm not such an easy mark,_ he grumbled to himself, crawling back to his seat beside Adam and ignoring Marvin completely. Deep down, he got it; got all of it, really, but that didn't stop him feeling angry. The sight of Tig looming over him with a gun in _both _hands only served to add fuel to the fire that was his temper.

These guys were goin' down.

"Yeah – easy to say," he muttered, earning a curious look from Adam.

"You don't speak," Tig said, pressing the gun to Danny's forehead. His voice was low and nasty, with not-so-subtle undertones of smugness and superiority. "I don't like your attitude." Using the other gun to indicate an empty corner of the room, he continued his heavy-handed attempt to belittle the detective. "Time out. Go sit over there."

"Are you kiddin' me...?"

"Do it!" The muzzle swung away from Danny and pointed at Adam instead. "Is that better?" Tig sneered, trying to keep a tight rein on his volatile temper. "Shall I finish the job on your friend instead – destroy all your good work in fixing him up - just 'cause you think you're some kinda smartass superhero in disguise?"

"Danny…" Adam said breathlessly. "Please..."

Was he begging for help, or trying to convince his friend that he would be okay? Either way, Danny had already made up his mind. He rose to his feet, keeping both eyes on Tig and the guns. "You got me, big shot," he said as he crossed the room, making for the lonely corner that was to be his new home. _Better than a cupboard, anyhow. _"Havin' tons of fun? Enjoy it while it lasts, okay?" He stepped around the young woman's body with care, pausing for a moment to pay his respects to her; daring Tig to challenge him and almost wishing that he would. There she lay, poor Nemesis; a silent accusation in the room, just like the old woman who had tried to help Adam and who had paid for her kindness with her life.

_Enough bodies, _Danny thought, stepping away at last. Reaching his destination, he settled himself on the floor, the very picture of casual unconcern. At the same time, he traded glances with Adam, who was white-faced but suitably stubborn. _Hold onto that feeling,_ he telegraphed. _Don't give in, buddy. We're gonna get out of here._

_You better hope that's the truth,_ said a frightened voice, deep inside, where he hid his true feelings.

Bravely – or blindly - Danny ignored it.

-x0x-

Selena's tears were silent now, rolling down her cheeks like silver raindrops. Her head was no longer in her hands but she was still trembling. Don saw the look in her eyes and knew it for what it was; the starkness of sudden grief. There were no words to console her and he did not cheapen her distress with a failed attempt. Instead, he used his own eyes to telegraph his sympathy. The young woman nodded briefly and went back to her distant vigil over the body of her fallen friend.

"You're a bastard," Don ground out, glaring at Tig. The words were reckless and the statement did not make him feel much better but he said it anyway.

"Not guilty," Tig replied darkly, turning away from Danny in order to focus all of his attention on this new challenge. Which meant, of course, that both guns were now levelled in Don's direction and suddenly he realised how poorly his advantage fared in comparison. Bravado was his only chance to maintain the bluff that he was a threat to the bad guys. The cop who brought a wine glass to a gun fight.

_I'm a dead man,_ Don thought to himself, trying not to let the realisation show on his face. Maybe Tig was too dumb to understand…

"Release him," the man said, stepping closer.

Maybe not.

"What – when we're both so comfortable?" he protested. There was a note of desperation in his voice that sickened him. Across the room, Danny shot him an encouraging look that did nothing whatsoever to help him in his current circumstance. Still, he appreciated the support. Over by the giant, Adam just looked ill, and the circles around his eyes were darker than ever against the pallor of his skin.

_Look who's talkin'_, Don accused himself when he felt a tremor run through the hand that was holding his makeshift weapon against Niall's throat. He longed to throw the glass away - he hated this kind of violent threat but he also hated the thought of relinquishing his one and only bargaining chip.

As it turned out, Tig had a bargaining chip of his own and it was Selena. His eyes were flat and cold as he studied her, and there was something in his gaze that made Don shudder as though Death himself had materialised in front of them. "Release him or I shoot your lady friend as well."

"You wouldn't do that," Don protested. "You need her, same as you need the rest of us."

Tig frowned. "You mistake my meaning, cop. I don't want to kill her. I want to make her suffer. There are plenty of non-fatal ways to hurt somebody - ask the geek if I'm tellin' the truth." Carelessly, he waved the other gun in Adam's direction, making the poor man wince.

"You tell him how it is, Tig," Niall crowed, cocky now that his freedom was imminent.

Don's sharp eye caught the look of exasperation that Tig tried to hide. So there was no love lost between these two men. Duly noted. As for the loyalty between the giant and his companions, that seemed to waver according to the situation – also something that could be exploited, given time and the right set of circumstances.

Feigning a reluctance that he no longer felt, Don unwound his grip on Niall and rolled the broken glass across the floor, out of reach.

Mr. Stinky gave a cry of triumph that soon turned into a groan as he began to rise. "My head!" He glared at Selena. "I'll make you pay for that."

"No charge," she muttered bleakly. "It was my pleasure." Don tried hard not to smirk at the look of confusion on Niall's face as he tried to work out whether or not she had insulted him.

"Give me one of those guns," Niall demanded of Tig. "I know jus' what to do with it."

Don didn't like the sound of that – and neither, it seemed, did Tig. "No more killing," he warned. "Not yet. We need the rest of 'em alive for leverage."

"I won't kill them," Niall sang out, holding the back of his head with one hand and beckoning with the other. "Give it, man. We're partners, right? You know me."

"Yes, I do," said Tig with feeling, but he handed Niall the pistol all the same.

By the look on Niall's face, Don would have thought that Tig had handed him the moon. He took the gun and cradled it in both hands, staring at it with a grin of pure delight.

"Get a room," Don muttered.

"You first," Niall replied. With the irritating manner of someone who knows they finally have the upper hand for once in their life, he pointed the gun at his enemy. "You an' me, we're goin' for a little walk – yeah, Tig?" He flashed his friend a quick look, in search of approval. "He won't bother you no more. I can take the girl too, if you want…" The glint in his eye was lascivious.

"I said no killing," Tig warned him quietly.

"No killing," Niall agreed. "Jus' like you said."

A cruel grin twisted the corner of Tig's mouth. "Then I guess they're all yours. Don't go far, now."

"You got it, cuz. I'm only lookin' for a little…" He glanced at Don and then let his gaze drift to Selena, where it lingered. "Privacy…"

The two captives clambered to their feet. Slowly; ever so slowly, Don reached out and squeezed Selena's hand, which hung limply by her side. Though she barely acknowledged his touch, she did not pull away.

_I'm right here,_ his gesture said. _Don't worry. __I'll protect you if it's the last thing I do..._

-x0x-

"You killed her!" Erin screamed. "This is all on _you_!"

She struggled in Jo's grip like an angry cat, desperate to reach the object of her fury – Mac Taylor, who had let her young friend Mary die.

_I did,_ he thought with dismay. _I caused it to happen. But how?_

He had been so certain that they held the key. The discovery that the thief lay in their own morgue was a lucky break – yet this very piece of information had turned the tide against them in the worst way.

Had they read the situation wrong?

Was it really about a sceptre or was something quite different at stake here? Something they could not control? If so, then Danny and the others were in very real danger.

_As am I, _he sighed, _if Jo lets go._

He couldn't blame Erin for her passionate response; not if he stopped to remember how he felt when it first appeared that Adam was dead. _I would have torn the world apart in a vain attempt to bring him back._ Maybe Mary was a criminal or maybe, just like Adam, she was innocent – it didn't matter. Someone cared about her loss, and that someone was grieving.

Mac stepped closer, hovering outside the limit of Erin's flailing arms. He did not speak. He simply waited. After a while, her efforts ceased and she stared at him with bleak, accusing eyes.

"I'm sorry," Mac offered. "I know that doesn't help. I don't expect it to, but..."

Erin shook her head. "Someone should shoot that man."

It took all of Mac's self-control not to voice his agreement.

"They don't have a clear line of sight," Lindsay offered quietly. "The railings and the narrow windows make it difficult…"

"Excuses," the woman spat.

Lindsay stood tall before her, radiating dignity. "My husband is in there," she said in a voice so calm that Mac was almost envious. "Please don't make the assumption that you are alone in this. We all care about what happens here." Her manner softened. "And I am so very sorry for your loss."

The party line – and yet, when Lindsay said it, the words rang true because she had spoken from the heart.

Erin nodded slowly.

"I'm sorry too," she said at last. "You can let me go now. I won't tear you limb from limb – I promise, Detective Taylor."

Waiting for a nod from Mac, Jo released her grip. "You're stronger than you look," she said with feeling, as the colour began to return to her strained fingers.

"So I've been told." Erin's voice was hoarse, with a layer of shame beneath the grief. "What happened? What went wrong?"

"That's what we need to find out," Mac said. "Jo, I know you'd rather be here but I need you back at the lab. There's more to this robbery than we first realised. Co-ordinate with Sheldon and keep me in the loop at all times. Go to the Met if you need to, and find out exactly what happened there. Take Ms. Baker… No!" He held up his hand as the woman in question opened her mouth – _to protest again,_ he thought with horror. "You were there. You're a witness – of sorts. If you want to help me end this, you have to play your part."

Much to his surprise, she nodded thoughtfully. "A rational man. I like it. Give me something to do and I'll be less of a liability, correct?"

"Correct," Mac told her, full of relief that her co-operation had been so easily won. He watched the two women leave and then turned to Freddie, who was watching a flickering series of images. "Any luck with the facial recognition on our shooter?"

"Not yet," the tech apologised. "I'm sorry. The software is much slower when it's in the field. That's a bug we're trying to work out. Sam has a few ideas and he's been tinkering but we can still send the image to the lab instead if you're not happy with our progress…"

"Stop," Mac said, rubbing his aching forehead. When he saw Freddie's crestfallen expression, he felt guilty for his outburst. "I'm sorry. Keep going - you're doing fine. I just…" Words deserted him. How could he even begin to explain the weight that was bearing down on him? _Focus on the positive,_ he told himself firmly and changed the subject. "Lindsay. Go down and talk to the hostages. Co-opt a couple of unis to help you, but steer clear of Ansell, for heaven's sake. Those poor people have been through enough."

With a tilt of the head, she acknowledged his clumsy attempt to make her smile. "Got it. And you'll be…?"

"Wherever Morton is. We need to discuss our options." Mac kept the explanation brief, afraid to spook her, but Lindsay was no fool.

"You're talking about a worst case scenario. Storming the bar, when it all goes to hell."

"You know we have to be prepared," he told her gently. "I promise, Lindsay; we're going to get them out - whatever it takes - and you'll be eating breakfast with your family when the sun comes up, wondering how you ever doubted I was right."

"Me," she said. "Doubt you?" Laying a hand on his arm, she shook her head. "You're our rock, Mac Taylor. Don't you know that?"

Mac's throat grew tight. At the same time, Freddie let out a whoop of joy. "We got him! Sorry, sir," he added sheepishly. "It's just… I thought you ought to… This is our man, Detective Taylor; I'd bet my life on it."

There on the screen was a truculent face, staring out at the world defiantly. _I'd bet my life on it too,_ Mac decided. Same features, same attitude. Same scumbag, as Don Flack would say.

"What's his name?"

Freddie leaned in. "Unger," he said slowly. "Timothy Unger."

"Unger…" Mac's gut began to churn. "We've heard that name before."

"Our John Doe was Theodore Unger. That's no coincidence, is it, Mac?" Lindsay said urgently.

"I told our hostage-taker that the thief who stole the sceptre from Adler was in our morgue. I told him the man's name was Unger. Straight away, he turns around and shoots a woman in cold blood." Mac stared at the screen so intently that the edges of his vision blurred and Timothy Unger's face was all he saw. "No coincidence. He has no interest in the sceptre. It's Theodore he wanted all along, 'not broken but whole'. The one thing we can't give to him…"

"His father," Lindsay guessed, and Mac nodded wearily.

-x0x-

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed it! Thanks for reading.**


	17. Chapter 17

**THE STANDOFF**

**Chapter Seventeen**

Something was badly wrong with Tig.

Marvin had never seen his brother quite so angry or so uncertain. He couldn't understand it at all. He had tried his best to help by grabbing the twisty man's legs, even though Adam stared at him afterwards with such a look of disappointment that it hurt inside his chest. At least Tig hadn't hurt Danny – only made him sit in time out, just like Dad always did with Marvin back home. Time out was for being bad but Marvin couldn't see what Danny had done that was so wrong. He tried to smile at the man from a distance but Danny ignored him and that hurt too.

Unlike the second gun, which had changed so many things, the cell phone still lay on the floor, abandoned – just like the fierce girl. Marvin tried to pretend that she wasn't there, but the cell phone caught his interest and held it. Tig was marching up and down nearby, muttering to himself. If only his brother would pick up the phone, Marvin reasoned, then he could talk to the cop on the other end and make a deal, and they could all go home again. _I want my supper, _Marvin sighed, _and my bed._ "I'm hungry, Tig," he said out loud, before he could stop himself.

"I don't care." Tig stopped pacing and glared at Marvin, causing him to shrink back in dismay.

"I'm hungry too," the twisty man announced in a tone that said _he_ didn't care about Tig.

_Not a fig,_ Marvin rhymed to himself, and felt a little better. There was a giant in a film – his _favourite_ film – who liked to play a rhyming game with his clever friend. Sometimes, Marvin wished that he could live in Florin too and be a brave hero like Fezzik. The rules were much simpler in fairy tales and the heroes always won.

"You know," Danny continued, "you're in control here. Why not make the most of it? You can make them give you anything you want. Cops delivering take-out – how crazy is that? Chinese food, pizza…"

"Hot dogs," Adam murmured softly.

"Cake," said Marvin, enjoying the game and the grin that Danny flashed in his direction. Much better.

Tig let them ramble on while he waited in silence. When they were done, he raised his eyebrows. "I know what you're trying to do."

"We're ordering take-out," Danny said nonchalantly.

"Oh yeah, you think you're the smart one, don't you? I've got you pegged alright. _Pick up the phone, Tig, and talk to my boss…_ very clever. Well, guess what? I won't be manipulated." Tig rounded on Marvin. "Which means, okay, that your new buddy there can't tell me what to do, no matter how smug he talks or how funny he thinks he is. Got that? These aren't your friends. They don't even like you – they're just trying to win you over. It's a game to them. They think a flashy smile and a kind word'll make you betray your own brother. Are they right?"

"No, Tig," Marvin said meekly. He felt sad, and very alone.

"Dam' straight. Family is everything!" There was a fierce look in Tig's eye. "Now, that stunt you pulled with his legs – that was gold. You saved my life, Marvin. He would've shot me dead for sure…"

"Dead like them?" Marvin forced himself to stare at the girl and the old woman.

"Dead like them. Kill or be killed," Tig said solemnly, waving his gun for emphasis. "You want to prove yourself again? Make me proud?"

He did. He really did. "Yes," Marvin begged. "Please, Tig - tell me how."

The trap closed in around him and Tig smiled in triumph. Marvin's own kind heart was the weapon that his brother used against him. _Family is everything…_ "This fool you seem to like so much is our enemy too," Tig said, watching Marvin's face all the while as he pointed to Adam, who flinched. "He works for the cops, which means he's as bad as the rest of 'em. I want you to hurt him - for me."

-x0x-

Niall was a smelly little man with a great big superiority complex. Don Flack and Selena had made him look ridiculous and it was all too clear that he meant to get his revenge on both of them. That was Niall's plan, but Don had something very different in mind.

He meant to end this, if he could.

"You almost knocked my brains out," Niall complained, as he ushered them from the room.

_Too many jokes,_ Don thought, struggling to exercise restraint – so unfamiliar – and hold his tongue.

By the look on Selena's face, she was having the same problem. "I was defending myself," she muttered.

"Yeah, well, you got no chance o' that now," the man sneered with far too much relish. He was acting like a villain in a low budget movie and it should have been funny, it really should, but the gun in his hand was still a threat that Don was desperate to neutralise. You didn't need brains or panache to fire a bullet, as Tig had already demonstrated.

"Which way do you want me to go?" Don asked with mock-politeness, gesturing to the row of doors that lined the corridor, and enjoying the sudden flustered look on Niall's face. "Left or right? You gotta say, if you want me to keep goin'. I'm not a mind reader."

Niall jabbed the gun in the small of Selena's back, making her gasp. "You," he said. "This is your place, okay?"

"Yes, I know that," she answered sweetly, recovering her aplomb. Don had to admire her courage. Niall was less of a fan.

"So find us a nice quiet place where we can have some fun without anyone disturbin' us," he ordered. "No windows; no outside door."

"The only place that fits your description is our storage room but it's far too small," Selena told him. "You'll have to adjust your parameters."

Clearly, she was trying to unnerve him with her fancy words. Like a bee trapped on the wrong side of a window, Niall let his anger swell to the point where Don could almost feel it, hot and strong and dangerous. Even Selena began to look afraid when she realised how badly her tactic had failed.

"Here," she said hastily, pointing to a nearby door. "You can go in here."

Niall nodded and gestured with the gun, unnecessarily. His face was red and his eyes were glistening with anger but he kept his lips pressed together and did not speak.

"Ladies first," Don suggested, trying to lighten the mood. Selena flashed him a grateful look and opened the door, slipping through like a shadow with the two men close behind her. Don's head was still aching badly and now his neck began to prickle as he turned his back on Niall. He didn't trust the man not to shoot him on a whim – and he would much prefer to survive this evening, if he could.

The room that Selena had chosen appeared to be some kind of break room, complete with comfortable chairs, a simple kitchenette, a television and what looked suspiciously like a poker table in the centre. There were two windows but they were narrow, high and dirty. The only other door belonged to what Don suspected was a small closet. To his surprise, Selena eyed it warily and then let her attention drift back to Niall. "Will this do?" she asked him, putting on a show of meekness that really didn't suit her, in Don's humble opinion.

What on earth was she playing at?

"I guess," the angry man muttered, disinclined to be happy with anything at this point. Striding across the room, he threw himself down on a padded leather seat and glared up at the two of them, shifting his aim back and forth. "Get on the floor, both of you. Face first, arms out, like you've just been arrested or somethin'."

_Yes, and I bet you know all about that,_ Don thought bitterly, forced to comply even though every muscle in his body was screaming at him not to put himself into such a subservient position. Selena, meanwhile, sent another unhappy glance in the direction of the closet as she dropped to her knees with an enviable grace that made Don feel like a lumbering bear in comparison.

Niall followed her gaze. "What's in there?" he demanded.

Selena paused, her delicate features the very image of distress. "Oh – nothing," she said, far too quickly. "It's just a broom closet."

Was Don imagining things or was she actually shivering?

"Oh yeah?" Niall countered. _You can't fool me,_ his sharp eyes said. Keeping the gun aimed directly at Selena's heart, he rose from his seat and circled the two of them warily. When he reached the closet, he swung the door open, almost as though he expected to find someone lurking inside.

_Wouldn't that be something, _Don thought. _Mac Taylor, leaping out, fully armed; here to save us all…_

But, of course, nothing happened.

The space, though small and dark, was filled with all kinds of useful clutter - several mops, a broom, a bucket and an old umbrella that spilled out and fell at Niall's feet like a clumsy child.

Selena shivered again.

Don had the strong sense that she was trying to manipulate her captor somehow but he couldn't for the life of him work out her cunning plan. _If she even has one,_ he thought shrewdly. More likely, she was improvising – but why was the closet so important? Niall had given no indication that he intended to lock them up – not yet, at least. The man was a sadist. He wanted to play…

"I hope to God he doesn't put us in there," Selena whispered in Don's ear, a little too loudly. "I'd have a panic attack for sure."

Subtle, Don thought. Very subtle. Tig would have given her a withering look and ignored her obvious prompt. Niall, on the other hand - Niall was as dumb as a box of rocks, and so he took the bait with a nasty grin.

"Think I can't hear you?" he mocked her. "You closter… closstra…? You hate small spaces, yeah? Then I got the perfect cage for you, while I deal with your _boyfriend_. Get up – and get in there."

"No!" Selena wailed, over-acting magnificently. Don had to admire her passion and her commitment to the demeaning role of 'damsel in distress'.

_And the Oscar goes to..._

Unaware that he was being played, Niall yanked her to her feet again with his free hand and dragged her over to the tiny closet, relishing her sobs. Then he shoved her in and slammed the door behind her. Once he had twisted the key in the lock, he removed it, taking no chances, and slipped it into his pocket.

"I'll get to you later," he promised Selena, through the wood, before turning his back on the door altogether and scowling at his next target.

Don swallowed. Now they were alone together. Now was the time when a true hero would make his move or face the consequences.

Now was the time to act.

He only wished he felt more optimistic about the outcome.

-x0x-

"I don't understand," said Marvin plaintively.

Adam held his breath.

"You hurt him already," the giant continued. "Killed him almost to death. Then we fixed him up, Tig; good and proper – you said we could, so why do you want me to hurt him again?"

"To remind you of our promise," Tig told his brother smoothly. "The one we made at school – remember? I stopped the other kids bullying you, and you helped me get what _I_ wanted. Nothing's changed since then. The real world is just like a great big schoolyard and we're standin' in the middle of it, back to back, like we always do."

"I'm not standing. I'm sitting down."

"Marvin! Don't be a dummy. You know what I mean."

"I suppose…" Marvin dragged the words out as he tried his very best to think things through. Adam watched his face avidly, tracking the play of emotions.

_Please, _he thought. _You're not a bad man. Think your own thoughts; don't listen to him._ But the bonds of family were hard to break, no matter how cruelly you twisted them; Adam knew that all too well – and Marvin was already weakening.

"What _do_ you want, Tig?"

"I want to know how much my brother loves me. I want to believe you'd do anything for me. I want you to prove that you won't _ever _turn against me."

_Me, me, me,_ Adam sighed. Where were Marvin's rights in this relationship? Tig's power was all-consuming.

"Marvin…" Danny urged from across the room. "Don't do this." But Marvin ignored him.

"I'll show you, Tig," the giant vowed as he rose to his knees. Adam shrank back, full of fear – until Marvin reached out and pinched the skin of his forearm, hard, between finger and thumb.

"Ow!" Adam squeaked, more startled than hurt.

Marvin gave a look of satisfaction and relief. "I got you good," he boasted.

"You sure did." Adam tried not to catch Danny's eye. He could _feel_ the man's amusement, all the way across the room.

"Ugh!" Tig vented his disbelief in the general direction of the ceiling. "What was _that_?" he demanded of Marvin, who wilted and sat back on his haunches, chastened. "You _nipped_ him? What are you, _five_?"

"But… you said the world is a playground," Marvin protested faintly. "Didn't he, Adam; just now? I got nipped all the time in school. It hurts real bad," he added, rubbing his arm against the ghost of a memory. "That's what you wanted."

Tig clenched his teeth together and spoke through them, clipping his words into angry little sentences. "You really are an idiot. I said _hurt_ him." The emphasis was deadly. "That means real pain. Hurt him now, or I swear I'll hurt _you_!"

"Hear that, Marvin?" Danny warned. "That's some brother you've got there. Sounds like he'd rather shoot you than let you make up your own mind about what's right and wrong."

"Shut _up_!" Tig whirled on him in fury, firing out a venomous string of expletives.

Taking the chance that Danny's intervention offered, Adam gazed into Marvin's eyes, so full of anguish and confusion.

"Just do it," he whispered. "It's okay."

That was a lie, of course; it was far from okay, but Adam couldn't bear to watch the gentle giant take any kind of punishment from the very person who was meant to love him and protect him. He felt a strange kind of sympathy for Marvin – _Stockholm syndrome, probably, _he mocked himself. And so he lied.

"You want me to… hit you?" Marvin breathed. "That's crazy."

Adam gave the best shrug he could manage under the circumstances. It was a lop-sided effort, but it seemed to do the trick. "You got me."

Shaking his head, as though he could hardly believe that he was about to do such an inconceivable thing, Marvin pulled back his huge hands and readied himself.

Adam winked at him, trembling all the while in anticipation of the blow that was about to come. "No, please!" he cried out, hoping Marvin would guess that he was faking it. _Almost_ faking it…

Tig looked back.

A whoosh of air.

A _clap _of thunder about Adam's ears… Someone was screaming (he hoped it wasn't him)… The sound pierced his skull and refused to go away…

And the world went dark again.

-x0x-

**A/N: Sorry, Adam!**

** In the next chapter – Confrontation with a capital C...**

**Hope you all enjoyed the update. Thank you to everyone who is still reading and reviewing.**

**Oh – and in case you were wondering, Marvin's favourite film is The Princess Bride.**


	18. Chapter 18

**THE STANDOFF**

**Chapter Eighteen**

It was becoming very clear to Don that Niall was not the cleverest criminal in the neighbourhood. Quite the contrary; when brains and cunning were being handed out, he was probably right at the back of the line, picking fights and trading insults. He was a thug, pure and simple; a wiry backstreet bully with a short fuse and no imagination whatsoever.

That didn't make him any less dangerous.

Lying on the floor, Don felt intensely vulnerable. He had faced many threats in his colourful career, but a fool with a gun was the most unpredictable kind of trouble and he couldn't think his way out of this situation, no matter how hard he tried. Logic was failing him in the worst way, and at the worst moment possible. There was only one alternative. As Niall loomed over him, ugly and smug, Don abandoned reason altogether and surrendered to his gut – which rose to the challenge at once in a fine display of reckless bravery. Reaching out, he grabbed Niall's leg and pulled it towards him, hard. With an angry yell, the thug lost his balance and came crashing down. As he did so, his hand twitched and the gun went off, startling both of them - but the shot went wide and the bullet disappeared into the table leg. The gun itself flew out of Niall's grasp and bounced across the carpet, taunting the two men from a safe distance.

If this had been a movie, the whole thing would have happened in slow motion. Real life was quicker and Don knew he had mere seconds to react if he wanted to keep his advantage. Niall lost no time in scrambling to his knees. Don mirrored his movement and drew back his fist, primed and ready. Then he let fly.

No punch had ever felt so satisfying. Niall's head rocked back and blood sprayed from his lips, flecked with foam. _That oughta do it, _Don crowed – but the man was tougher than he looked. Clearly, he had learned to take a beating, for he straightened up without delay, wiped his mouth and leered at his opponent, showing bloodstained teeth.

"That the best you got?" he crowed – and sent back a jab that caught Don in the base of the throat. "My sister hits better'n you, an' she's nine years old."

The detective scrambled backwards, gasping for air. Niall could have followed, but he chose to watch instead, savouring the moment like a cheesy super-villain. "Thought I was an easy target, did you?"

"N-no," Don choked. "But you… gotta give me points… for tryin'…"

"There is no 'try', pig."

_Great, _Don thought. _Now he's misquotin' Yoda._ Niall was unbearably cocky – but cocky meant over-confident, and over-confident could be exploited.

Time to play possum.

Don let his eyes go glassy and feigned an air of extreme confusion, drawing on his earlier experience behind the bar.

The fool rose to his feet and swaggered over. "You really are too easy," he boasted.

"Says you," Don croaked. Sticking with the classics, he made a sudden dive for Niall's leg and yanked it out from under him yet again. "Fool me twice," he jeered, as the man fell backwards onto the poker table. In a matter of seconds, driven by his instinct to survive, Don was on top of him, pounding and pounding and _pounding_ at Niall until his brain was buzzing and the skin that covered his knuckles was all but destroyed. _Gotta be sure this time…_

Niall grew still. Don pulled back and the rush of adrenaline left him. Now he felt sober and cold. There was no sense of pride in his achievement. His victim lay before him on the table; a pitiful sight to behold.

Don buried his face in his hands…

… and the spectre attacked.

"You like fake-outs?" Niall demanded, through the red mask of his own blood. "Me too." His fists were flying like angry birds and Don struggled to defend himself against the onslaught. This was a fight to the death; that much was obvious from the steely glint in the other man's eye. Kill or be killed.

_God help me, _Don thought, full of horror.

His head was still aching from his earlier fall, and his arms felt like lead as he kept on swinging, punch after punch, block after hasty block. Niall was tiring too, but not quickly enough. Don was going down; he knew it. Only luck could save him now – but Fate, it seemed, had also turned against him. Darting away for a moment, Niall bent down… and when he straightened up again, the gun was in his hand. He stood there, in front of the broom closet door, and his manner was triumphant.

"I win," he boasted.

"Then we're back where we started," Don said wearily. He tried to square his shoulders, wincing with the sudden arc of pain that flared across his chest.

"No." Niall shook his head, slowly and deliberately. "I don't think so."

And all at once, Don found himself staring down the barrel of that tiny little gun; the last thing he would ever get to see before he left this mixed-up world for ever.

_I'm sorry, Mac,_ was the single, unexpected thought that crossed his mind.

-x0x-

Outside the bar, all was snow and organised chaos. Lindsay was a quiet angel of mercy, moving from one rescued patron to the next, taking statements and offering reassurance. Somehow, from somewhere, she had assembled a small team of unis to assist her and it appeared she had chosen well. Mac watched the scene for a moment or two and found, to his surprise, that he was actually smiling. "We can do this," he muttered to himself, heartened by the sight of their success.

"No doubt," Morton said behind him, making him jump.

_Guess that's how Adam feels on a regular basis, _Mac thought guiltily. To cloak his embarrassment, he got straight down to business. "We have coverage of the main room, thanks to your whizz-kids upstairs. They're good, Jack."

"Yes, they are," Morton nodded. "And no – you can't have them." One raised eyebrow was the only clue that he was joking. "Meanwhile, I've scouted for access points. You want an incursion, it's going to be tricky. Our options are limited."

"No," said a new voice; "they're not."

This time, much to Mac's satisfaction, even Morton was taken by surprise. The woman who stepped from the shadows was very familiar. Mac had last seen her face on a tiny screen – _after _the rest of the hostages were released. "You're Erin's girl. Selena," he barked, sounding far harsher than he intended. The words were almost an accusation but her unlooked-for appearance had set him on edge. _Something's happened,_ he thought with a lurch of his gut. _I took my eye off the ball for a second and missed the action._ "You were sitting with Don Flack."

Already, the wet snow was changing her from dark to white; from dry to wet and terribly cold. Her blouse was thin and she wrapped her arms around her chest, shivering. "You know a lot for a guy on the outside, but you don't know everything. We need to get back in there, right now – and I have a way. You the man on the phone? The cop in charge?" She looked from one man to the other but her gaze lingered longest on Mac.

"What makes you think…?"

"I can read people. You've got a way about you."

"Yes," he confirmed. "I'm Detective Mac Taylor."

At the same time, his radio beeped. When he opened the channel, Sam's voice greeted him. "We got a problem, sir."

"I'm becoming aware of that," Mac said grimly. "You're a little late with your intel."

"My fault." Sam sounded penitent, and a little nervous. "I told Freddie we oughta get the whole story before we filled you in."

The whole story. Mac stared at Selena and his imagination threatened to run riot.

"Fill me in now," he commanded, neither confirming nor denying that they had made the right decision.

"Yes, sir. Your man Flack and the barmaid – they were just 'escorted' from the room by one of the perps. We don't have eyes on them as yet but I'm guessin' that's no private party they're about to have. Your other guy – the one who's wounded – he's had a blow to the head that appears to have knocked him out again. Looks like Unger is losing control of the situation and trying to claw it back by tormenting everyone around him. That's not good," Sam concluded, unnecessarily.

"No, it isn't. Thank you," Mac said, granting Sam that small reprieve. After all, his judgement had been fair and rational. "Keep me posted from now on. If Unger sneezes, I want to know about it." He _tried _not to think about poor Adam and the others; _tried_ to maintain his focus but it was increasingly hard.

"I will, sir. What about Flack and the girl?"

"The girl is here," Mac told him shortly. He cut off Sam's gasp of astonishment and turned back to the barmaid. "Your turn," he suggested, softening his tone when he saw how pale she was. Compassion warred with urgency, and urgency won. "How did you get out?"

"The same way we're going back in," she informed him with stark determination.

Mac resisted the urge to inform her that he was the boss. There was something in her restless manner that told him not to waste any more time. "Flack's alone with the perp. Is the man armed?"

"He is." The simple statement made Mac's blood run cold.

"And you got away - how?"

She shrugged. "I'm sneaky. Erin has what you might call… a contingency plan. I made use of it."

"A secret door?" Morton's eyes gleamed momentarily.

"Actually, more of a tunnel." Already, she was edging backwards. "Are you coming? There's no time to lose. Your man is impetuous and Niall's a jerk with a gun - that's a volatile combination." Shaking her head, she let Mac see the fear in her eyes. "You know I'm right."

"I do." Protocol begged him to wait and assemble a team but Mac's gut was stronger and right now it was screaming at him. Even level-headed Morton gave him a nod of stern affirmation. He reached for his side-arm. "Show me."

"This way." Selena's relief was palpable and she favoured him with a ghost of a smile. Turning, she began to thread her way through the falling snow, her heels leaving sharp little dints in an already mottled canvas. The two men followed close behind her. No one spoke, and as they moved away from the crowd, the whole world seemed to lapse into a silence that was broken only by the grind of their own muffled footsteps and the _plop, plop, plop _of wet flakes all around them.

When she paused, Morton looked disgruntled. "Shame on me," he murmured.

Mac had no time to assuage his professional pride. "Where's the tunnel?"

"Here," Selena said, and this time her smile came alive. The wall beside her was covered with old fliers, advertising long-forgotten gigs and hopeful start-up albums. At first glance, in the shadows, it seemed as though they hid nothing more suspicious than a simple stretch of brickwork. Morton stepped forward and ran his hands over the patchwork of posters. Then he gave a cry of triumph.

"I can feel it!"

He let his fingers follow the edge, defining the door like a blind person feeling their way. Then he _pushed_ – and a neat section of the wall flipped open.

"Cunning," he marvelled. "The door is made of metal but the outer surface feels like brickwork, underneath the fliers. You can only find it if you know where to look."

"Which, I think you'll find, is the point of a secret door," Selena told him archly.

Mac cut them short. "Enough sight-seeing." Raising his gun with both hands, he stepped into the darkness. "You stay here," he warned the girl.

"I will _not_," she replied. "You'll be lost in a matter of minutes without me. That's a fact, and if you're half the man I think you are, you'll not waste time arguing about it."

Was that amusement in Morton's eyes? "Know when you've been beaten," he suggested quietly.

"Hold on to your assets," Mac countered, and beckoned Selena to follow him. Morton took up the rear, as the door swung shut behind them, making them all jump.

"It's on a spring," Selena explained, sounding sheepish in the darkness. "I should've warned you, I guess."

Pulling out a flashlight, Morton lit their way, casting long black shadows that stretched out ahead of them, eerie and ominous. "You came through here with no light?"

"I was motivated." Selena shivered, and Mac peeled off his coat. As he handed it to her, she looked at him sideways but did not decline his offer. "Seems like chivalry is alive and well in the NYPD. Thank you, Detective."

Together, the three of them made their way along the narrow corridor, following the line of pipes overhead. Occasionally, the passage branched, but Selena was resolute and guided them faultlessly to their destination; another secret door that led into a closet full of everyday clutter. When she held her finger to her lips, Mac knew this was the place. He tried the handle but it would not budge.

"He locked me in," Selena mouthed.

Mac nodded. Trading glances with Morton, he formed a silent plan and mouthed a countdown: _one… two… three…_

They flung themselves against the closet door and it burst open at once, crashing into something – or some_one_ – they could not identify until the two men leapt out into the room beyond.

The first thing Mac saw was the unconscious body of Niall at his feet.

The second thing he saw was Don Flack's expression of relief, gratitude and utter exhaustion.

_Thank you, _mouthed the prone detective. _God, thank you._

Mac took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He bent down and picked up the gun at his feet.

_That was close. Far too close, _he thought, full of unease.

-x0x-

Danny Messer was no stranger to nightmares. _After all, _he would tell himself, _I've as good an excuse as the next unlucky guy._ Irish drug gangs hell bent on retrieving their property; crazy S.O.B.s like Shane Casey hell bent on revenge… Danny had been through his fair share of horrors and they haunted him – but those were dreams, and when he woke up, there was Lindsay by his side to comfort him, and Lucy to bring him right back down to earth with her beautiful smile.

Not this time.

Stranded in an empty bar room, impotent and fuming, he could not bear to witness Adam's humiliation and distress a moment longer. It felt as though he were trapped in a dream from which there was no chance of waking.

_And I'm not the only one,_ he thought, watching Tig pace back and forth. Danny was a fair student of human nature and he recognised a meltdown when he saw one. No matter how much pain Tig inflicted, or how badly he messed with poor Marvin's head, the man was spiralling into a dark place from which there was no return. Hell itself was pulling him in.

_Damned if I'm gonna let him drag the rest of us down alongside him,_ Danny thought grimly.

When a shot rang out suddenly, Tig froze. The pulsing light from the squad cars played across his face in ghoulish colours; red for the blood that had already stained his conscience; blue for the icy hand of Death. "What was that?" he whispered.

Danny had no need to answer. Already, Tig's mind was filling in the blanks.

"If your cop friend has taken the gun…"

_Please, God, _thought Danny.

"If Niall is dead…"

_Then Flack's already on his way to rescue us._

Cautioning himself not to be too optimistic – it could be Niall who had fired the gun, after all, but Danny preferred not to think about that right now - the detective rose to his feet and faced Tig squarely. "You got a choice to make," he said. "Things are fallin' apart, and you know it. Time to give up, while you can."

He had hoped for a modicum of sense, but Tig was already straying into a tangled world of paranoia and irrational decisions. There was something in his eyes – it almost seemed like grief, thought Danny, who was no stranger to that basest of emotions. "No," said Tig, and Danny knew there would be no swaying him now. "Pick up your friend."

Poor Marvin had retreated behind the bar. As Danny walked towards Adam, on wobbly legs, he could hear the giant moaning to himself, and see the top of his head rocking absently. Yeah - absent from conscience and absent from blame. _He's not here anymore, _Danny thought, with a measure of sympathy. "Where are we going?"

"Nowhere," Tig said roughly. "Follow me." He waved his gun for emphasis, like a lucky talisman that would keep him safe from all harm.

_You wish, _Danny warned him fiercely, with his eyes.

Bending down, he scooped Adam into his arms and strained to lift him upright. _You need to lay off the hot dogs, buddy, _he thought, driven by a wildness that had little to do with real humour. Adam dangled limply and Danny stumped across the room towards their captor, who was running his hand through his hair in a very distracted manner.

"Back there," Tig ordered. "Behind the bar. We gotta be ready."

"For what?" Danny said, though he knew; God, he hoped he knew. _Don's alive, _he chanted to himself. _Don's alive and help is on the way. _ The more he kept on believing it, the more chance it had to be true, he thought irrationally."Don's alive," he whispered to Adam, who groaned and shifted in his arms. Danny tried not to drop him as he staggered round the counter with his load and dropped to the floor beside Marvin. "Hello again," he said, but could not tell if the giant heard him. Tig was the last to join them. His eyes were wide and bulging as he fell to his knees and pressed himself against the dark wood, cradling his weapon.

"Danny?" said a tired voice.

"Hey there. Sleepin' on the job?" he murmured in return. Adam's blue eyes were wide too. He followed the movement of Danny's lips with deep concentration.

"My head's ringing."

"I'm not surprised. It'll wear off soon enough."

"Danny – what?" Looking around only seemed to agitate Adam further. "Where…?"

"Barricade," Danny told him shortly. Tig was frowning at them, but he didn't care. Adam had a right to know what was going on – and yet the other man's face was still full of confusion.

"What?" he said again, and shook his head, as though to clear it.

Danny opened his mouth to explain, but was stopped in his tracks by a loud crash, and footsteps. "NYPD," said a blessed, familiar voice.

"Mac!" he cried – but Tig's gun was already pressed against Adam's forehead. "You're a coward," Danny hissed, feeling sick. "Let us go. Don't you know it's the end?"

"Danny?" Adam cried out, full of fear. "What's happening?"

_Showdown, _Danny thought bleakly, his head filled with untimely visions of Butch and Sundance, and the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. "Mac's here," he told his friend, as the footsteps shuffled closer and the room fell silent, waiting…

-x0x-

**A/N: Cornish Pasties, don't kill me – I'm going to stop right there (dun dun duhhh). Initially, I planned to carry on but the next part is very important and now that I have reached this point, I think it deserves a chapter of its own. By the way - for those who are wondering, the story is still far from over, even though Tig might feel that the end is nigh…**

**Thank you very much indeed to everyone who is still reading, following and favouriting this story, as well as those who are reading my other fics – you really do keep me going, you know!**

**I'll try to post the next chapter as soon as I can but the next week is crazy so please forgive any delay.**

**Hope you enjoyed this update!**


	19. Chapter 19

**THE STANDOFF**

**Chapter Nineteen**

After a long, hard look at his friend, Mac had strongly suggested that Don go back through the tunnel with Selena and get himself checked out – but it had been a suggestion, not an order, and Don had declined straight away.

"I'm stickin' with you," he told Mac roughly. "Plenty of time for that later."

Mac, to his surprise, had said nothing more on the subject, though his eyes spoke volumes. A further knock to Don's confidence had been the arrival of three bulky, armoured officers – clearly members of Morton's ESU team – through the secret doorway in the broom closet. Selena had guided them in as she left, her own personal mission complete, and they had waited silently, anonymous and identical in their uniforms, as Mac and Morton had conferred together about the best way to proceed. 'Forwards' was the gist of it, as far as Don could tell, and forwards the main team went after only a couple of minutes, with Don at the end of the line like the drooping tail on a weary dog. In one hand, he clutched Niall's tiny little gun. _That _pleasant fellow was still in the back room, under close guard, much to Don's great relief.

He was battered and bruised, and his borrowed Kevlar vest was far too tight around his aching ribs, but he still felt that old familiar sense of adrenaline as they burst through the bar room door. "NYPD," Mac announced, from the midst of his armoured escort, scanning the room with an urgent eye.

"Mac!" cried a welcome voice from behind the bar. Don craned his neck to see past the hulking ESU team, but he could not catch a glimpse of Danny – or anyone else for that matter. Only the two fallen hostages remained, diminished by their lonely state. Even the giant, Marvin, had somehow managed to squeeze himself into a hiding place. Don could only imagine how painful the move must have been for poor Adam, and he winced in sympathy, letting out an unexpected hiss that caused Mac to glance at him swiftly.

_I'm fine,_ he mouthed, and tried not to look like a man who had just gone ten rounds with a desperate thug. No way was Don Flack about to quit; not when his friends were still in danger. Drawing himself up to his full height, he tried to shut out everything except the mission. _Mind over matter. If you don't mind, then it don't matter,_ he sang in his head, feeling slightly delirious.

"Whaddoyouwant?" Tig growled, out of sight.

"To talk," Mac said, impressing Don with his steady tone. "You stopped taking my calls. I'm Detective Mac Taylor – and you're Timothy Unger." It wasn't a question.

Timothy Unger. _Tig,_ Don thought, with bitter amusement. _Ha ha. Very funny._

"So then, I guess we all know who we are." Tig's manner was reckless. Don recognised it all too well. He had felt something like that back when Jess died – a darkness that had claimed him, drawing an ugly veil across the world. Changing everything. He still shuddered to think of it.

"I'm sorry about your father," Mac said.

_And there it is. _Startled by his own insight, Don pulled a face as Tig called out in reply.

"Empty words. I prefer actions. They speak louder."

"So I've heard," Mac said glibly, with only the slightest air of sarcasm. "For instance – giving yourself up right now would speak to the fact that you're a reasonable man. A man with a future."

_Nice,_ Don applauded him silently. A not-so-subtle threat, slipped into a rational piece of advice.

"Future?" Tig snorted. "My father had a future. I'm not leavin' here till someone's paid for that."

"Tig?" said a new voice, full of trepidation. "What's he talkin' about?"

"Hold your tongue and let me handle this," Tig warned Marvin.

"But why does someone have to pay for Dad? Is he stolen too?"

"You could say that." Tig's fury swelled with every word. "His whole life was stolen. Meaning he's dead, okay? That clear enough for you? Dead and stuck in their meat locker, waiting for some crazy Frankenstein doctor to cut him wide open…"

Don held his breath in horrified fascination. He had a shrewd idea what was coming next, and he was right. From behind the wooden counter there issued forth a howl so primal, it raised the hairs on the back of his neck. _Poor Marvin, _he thought, and then caught himself. _Wait – you're feelin' sorry for a perp?_ It was strange but, no matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn't fight the over-riding instinct that there were three victims trapped in this room, not two.

"Shut up," Tig hissed. "Shut _up_!" He was losing control and he could sense it, as could the team on the opposite side of the bar. Mac edged closer.

"Marvin," he said. "You can leave now. You don't have to stay here." Clearly, he and Don had reached the same conclusion.

Marvin's howl disintegrated into a series of snuffling sobs. "I'm not leavin' my brother," he mumbled at last. "An' not Adam."

_That _was very interesting. Don's mouth twitched at the corner. _I should be surprised,_ he thought wryly. _What is it about that guy? _Adam could be irritating, stubborn – not to mention plain naïve at times – and yet he managed to worm his way under your skin until, all of a sudden, you found that he was someone you were strangely pleased to see. Someone who made the room feel that little bit brighter. Someone who made you smile, just as Mac was smiling now.

Tig was less than thrilled by Marvin's noble sentiment. "You're a turncoat," he snapped.

"No, I'm not." Marvin sounded confused. "My coat's the right way round, Tig; honest."

It wasn't hard to imagine the look on the other man's face. Don amused himself by trying.

"Danny? Adam?" Mac ventured, taking advantage of the momentary lapse in conversation. "You okay back there?"

"I'm still in one piece," Danny called back promptly, with his usual aplomb – though Don, who knew him well, could sense the tension lurking behind every word. "Adam's had better nights out. I'm no expert but I'd say he needs a doctor, PDQ."

"I broke him." Marvin's confession was mournful.

"Hey – not your fault, buddy." There it was again; an interesting clue to the state of affairs behind the counter. Danny's message came through loud and clear, chiming neatly with Don's own assessment. Tig was the enemy. Marvin was one step away from changing sides.

"He's not your buddy," Tig snarled. "You keep your mouth shut, or _Adam_ here will get what _you_ deserve. No one's talkin' but me, right?" As though to demonstrate the power of his words, he let the silence linger. Mac held up his hand, cautioning everyone around him. Now was not the time to push; now was the time to pay attention.

_Oh yes, we'll play along,_ Don thought, forming his anger into words and wishing he could fire them, like sneaky arrows, at his foe. _But you can bet there's gonna be a reckoning for what you've done here. Just ask your friend Niall if you don't believe me._

"Good," Tig said at last, unfazed by the hostile atmosphere around him. "Now you've got it. I'm the one in charge, and you're gonna listen to _me_, Detective High and Mighty Mac Taylor."

"Go on," Mac prompted, so coldly polite that Don shuddered to hear him.

_Oh, Tig, _he crooned; _you don't know who you're messin' with…_

-x0x-

Sprawled on the floor with his head propped against Danny's leg, Adam tried to make sense of their new situation. It wasn't easy. The dreadful ringing in his ears unnerved him more than he cared to admit, and caused him great discomfort. Worse by far was the muzzle of Tig's gun, that death-dealer, jammed up against his aching forehead. Danny's fierce expression was the only thing that kept him sane, grounding him in the knowledge that he was _not alone_ in all of this.

Though he could hear very little beyond a constant, bone-piercing whine, Adam was no fool when it came to piecing visual clues together. Tig's anger and Danny's suppressed excitement were a dead giveaway – _bad choice of words, _he cautioned himself – and he could have sworn that, a moment ago, Danny's lips had formed the magic word 'Mac'. The nightmare was almost over, then. With great relief, he pictured a team of cops on the other side of the bar, led by his hero and bristling with weapons. All Tig had was one gun, he thought gleefully…

… but one gun was enough, if you knew how to use it to your advantage. Keeping it trained on a broken, useless lab geek, for example; that would definitely do the trick.

Adam's good mood drained away into his sneakers, leaving him empty and shaking. How had it come to this, exactly? What made _him_ the pawn in Tig's crazy game? _I must have victim scrawled across my forehead, _he thought angrily. _Story of my life, right? _He longed to rise up and claim his freedom, like some kick-ass hero in a movie – but his thought flatly refused to transform, superhero style, into brilliant action. Instead, he lay there like a frightened lump with one arm strapped to his side and a constant, nagging pain that warned him he was very, _very_ mortal. _And a wuss,_ he grumbled. _Shoot me now._

_You don't mean it,_ his better self urged, contradictory as always.

Rolling his eyes in disgust at the ramblings of his inner monologue, Adam caught sight of Marvin. The giant had sunk into a woeful state, and it was the depth of his distress that made Adam take stock and deliver a mental slap to the back of his own head. _You deserved that,_ his better self offered wisely, sounding a lot like Mac.

"Thanks, boss," he muttered. The words sounded muffled, as though they were floating underwater, trapped in a bubble that nothing could burst, not even the sharp whine that plagued him. Danny peered at him in concern.

_How you doin'?_

Adam watched his lips and pretended he could hear. "Peachy, thank you. What's up with Marvin?"

The gun jabbed at his forehead. _Okay, yeah, I get it, _Adam winced. _Stop talking._ Keeping a close eye on Tig, he waited until the man's attention had been reclaimed by the team beyond the bar, and mouthed his question for a second time.

Danny's lips twisted unhappily. _Bad news._

Plenty of that around here. _What kind?_

He could smell Danny's 'night out' aftershave as his friend leaned in, taking great care to form the shape of his words so there could be no mistake. _Someone killed their father._

Such a simple phrase and yet it managed to define every aspect of the brothers' grief; in particular, Marvin's terrible distress. Adam felt a pang of… no, not sympathy; that wasn't strong enough. This was more like the keen sense of loss that permeates a wake. Stretching out his one free hand, Adam bridged the lonely gap that led to the unhappy giant. With more than a little trepidation, he laid his shaking fingers on Marvin's arm. Danny watched him, quietly approving.

Marvin stiffened. Two tear-stained eyes peered over the giant's massive shoulder, puffy and red-raw where he had scrubbed them repeatedly with his knuckles.

Adam stared back. No smile, no words, no complications. They stayed like that for the longest moment he had ever lived through. When Marvin finally broke eye contact and turned away, Adam let his fingers drop to the floor beside him and closed his own eyes, exhausted but strangely at peace.

-x0x-

Mac was fuming. He clung to control like a man on a cliff-face, but he could feel himself slipping. Beside him, Morton was a rock of absolute calm and Mac drew from the other man's strength with impunity, desperate to avoid the kind of reckless error that would bring them all to the edge of disaster, and cost Adam and Danny their lives.

Squaring his shoulders, he kept his service weapon trained on the bar in front of him and wished he could see what was really happening on the other side. Had they broken through too late? Or too soon? Had he made the wrong decision?

_Stop second-guessing your actions,_ he thought grimly. _Let the scene play out._

Keeping Flack with the entry team had certainly been a moment of weakness but, on that score at least, Mac felt no regret. The look of burning _need_ in those blue eyes was enough to remind him that he would have made the very same demand if the tables had been turned. Besides, Don had a stubborn streak that would keep him on his feet until hell froze over, if that was how long it took to free his friends.

_You and me both._ Mac's sweaty fingers threatened to lose their grip and he tightened them once again. "Go on," he repeated, still waiting for the customary list of demands. Tig was out of luck if he thought his heinous actions could get him anything he wanted but there was no harm in pretending to comply. Lulling him into a false sense of security. Waiting until his guard was down and moving in…

"You think you're so smart." That arrogant voice was really starting to grate on Mac's already tortured nerves. He pressed his lips together, frowning to relieve the pressure.

"Not at all."

"I said no talking! You want your men to come out of this alive, you better start listening. I'll swap the cop for the man – or woman - who killed my father. That's my first demand. You got…" Tig faltered briefly. "Five hours. That should be time enough for a _smart_ man; Head of the Crime Lab."

_Danny for an unknown killer._ Mac took a risk and broke the no-talking rule yet again. "What about Adam? He's injured – can't you release him first? I know Danny would agree."

"I don't care what you _know_, or what 'Danny' would do for his friend. Here's what _I_ know; you're soft, and you need… let's call it 'proper motivation'. You want Adam too, you gotta bring the killer here to me, and I'll tell you my final demand. If not… well, even a fool like my brother knows how this'll end. Your choice," he finished smugly. "Don't take too long - the clock is ticking."

Mac traded glances with Flack, and then Morton. Both men nodded. Time to retreat, and consider their options. As Morton's officers moved on silent feet to retrieve the abandoned bodies of the two fallen hostages, Mac bent down and slid his radio across the floor. It stopped just shy of the wooden counter. Straightening up, he glared at his unseen foe.

"Adam gets worse, you call me. You need _anything_, you call me – food, water, medical supplies."

Taking Tig's silence for an assent, he backtracked slowly, keeping his gun raised until he was safely out of the room. Only then did he allow himself a moment to express his anger, slamming his fist against the wall so hard that he felt a tingling aftershock run through his fingers.

"What now?" said Flack. His whole frame was bent and his voice was weary.

"Now?" Mac repeated grimly. "Now we get you to a hospital."

"Funny man." Flack shook his head. "You know what I mean."

"Of course I do. And I don't have the perfect answer; not yet, okay Don? But that doesn't mean we're defeated."

"You gonna hunt the killer, like he said?" Following Morton and his team, they made their way towards the secret passage.

"Yes, I am."

Don's voice dropped to a whisper. "Are we gonna save 'em, Mac?"

"Damn straight." Mac was surprised by the force of his own conviction, and thrilled to see a glimmer of renewed belief in Don Flack's bloodshot eyes. "Damn straight we'll save 'em. That's what we do – and we're good at it, remember?"

As he stepped into the shadows, guiding Don along the twisting route to freedom, his conscience broke through and claimed the final word. _Damn straight you'll save them, Mac Taylor – or you'll never forgive yourself._

-x0x-

**A/N: Angst! And a challenge for Mac – but where will it take him, and will he succeed? What **_**is**_** Tig's final demand? Ah, questions…**

**Hope you enjoyed the chapter – sorry it was a little later than usual. Plenty more to come!**

**Thanks for reading,**

**Smuffly.**


	20. Chapter 20

**THE STANDOFF**

**Chapter Twenty**

_Selena free. Don too. Use info wisely. Mac._

Jo stared at the message on her cell phone and felt a surge of jubilation. She knew her eyes were shining, so she kept her head down, pressed her lips together and studied Erin Baker surreptitiously through her eyelashes. Clad in a borrowed NYPD sweatshirt and pants instead of her own sodden clothes, the woman was using a borrowed NYPD towel to dry her white-blonde hair in the mirror, leaning forwards over the sink to inspect her general appearance as she did so. Pulling a 'make-up face', Jo's daughter Ellie always called it, with that faintly disapproving tone employed by all teenage daughters. Jo allowed herself a tiny grin. _Vanity,_ she thought. _I can use that too._

"Am I under arrest, Detective Danville?" Erin's reflection asked suddenly, glancing at Jo from the mirror. Very disconcerting. "If so, you neglected to read me my rights."

Jo lifted her head as the grin blossomed into her most disarming smile – a sure sign of trouble for those, unlike Erin, who knew her well. Ever since a certain ruse with a lie-detector and a prison inmate, Adam Ross in particular would check out the nearest escape route whenever she looked at him that way. The man was far too easy. Sometimes (Jo had to admit), she smiled at him sweetly just to watch him panic.

Thinking about Adam's current plight, her mood shifted but her expression remained the same. "_Should_ I arrest you?"

Erin dropped the wet towel on the floor and produced a comb from thin air, with all the smugness of a third-rate conjuror whose trick has been successful. "That's a clumsy question. To which the answer is: of course not. I'm not the villain here – and besides, your boss promised me immunity."

"I don't think that's what he said, exactly..." Jo interrupted.

"_Promised_ me. You need my help, Detective…"

"And you need ours." Apparently, Jo's subconscious had made the decision for her. _Use info wisely…_ "We're all in the same boat here. A little give and take is necessary."

Erin shrugged and began to comb her hair, smoothing it back into the sleek wet cap. "I couldn't agree more. Good news or bad news?"

"Pardon me?"

"That text you just received. I'm assuming it came from your boss." She laid a subtle emphasis on the last word, hoping perhaps to rattle her escort – but Jo was unperturbed.

"Just keeping me in the loop," she said with an airiness that was calculated to annoy. _You push me, I push back._ "We done here? This _is_ the Crime Lab, after all, not America's Next Top Model."

Turning away from the mirror, Erin looked her up and down. "So I gather."

Jo bristled. She dug her nails into her palm and thought about random, soothing images – puppies, bangles, baby Ellie's bright smile (the one that had captured her heart). "Oh, honey; that's no way to rile me," she lied. _Now who's the vain one, Josephine?_ "And, you know, you'll do much better with me on your side. You're hurting, Ms. Baker - I am too. Those boys are like family to me, which means I know exactly what you're going through. You want to finish this, we need to work together."

"Yes," said Erin slowly. "I know. Forgive me, Detective, if you'd be so kind. I'm not quite… myself today."

"Granted," Jo replied with instant generosity. She held out her hand, feeling quite ashamed when she saw the crescent marks made by her nails. "And forgotten." Her bracelets rattled as the two women made their truce official.

Leaving the washroom, they made their way towards the main lab complex. Outside, the snow was falling in a torrent, thick and fast. "Feels like the world is ending," Erin murmured.

Jo paused to stare through the glass and her own pale reflection. "It's hypnotic."

Erin's image came to stand beside her own. "'So fanciful, so savage'*…" Unblinking, she stared through the wild flakes to a scene beyond, one that Jo could not behold without her guidance. "It was snowing last night too. I was glad, at the time. You Crime Lab people, with all your cleverness – even you can't unbury footprints once they've been obliterated."

Jo held her breath, afraid to break the spell.

"I had the sceptre in my hand," Erin continued, lost in rapture. "It was beautiful, Detective. There, in those vast halls, we felt like royalty. And then…"

"The revolution came?"

Erin turned and nodded with a wry smile. "You could say that; yes. Two men, both armed, both hostile. Artefacts are valuable, but so are lives. I made a choice. Perhaps it was the wrong one."

"I doubt that," Jo told her kindly.

"Do you? If we'd held our ground – held onto the sceptre – would I be standing here right now? Would Selena be a captive? Would Mary be _dead_?" Erin's voice broke on the final word.

"Impossible to say – but I can tell you what I _do_ know." _Time to deal with her honestly_,Jo decided, letting the words come out in a rush. "Selena is free. One of our men, too. That text…" She faltered, caught in the web of her own deception. But Erin's eyes were full of gladness.

"Thank you!" she exclaimed. "Truly? Free?"

Jo called up Mac's message and showed it to the woman, who read it several times before glancing back up. "And the other men? Your friends?"

She shook her head. "Still hostages." It felt so unreal, to say such a thing.

Erin fell silent, watching the snow once again. "Patrick," she offered, at last. "I remember now. I heard the other man – Unger, I guess – call his partner Patrick. They seemed to know each other very well. There was… a weary animosity between them; the kind you see in families, or close friendships that have gone sour."

Jo nodded. "Thank _you_," she told Erin's pale reflection. "That might just be the vital clue we're looking for."

-x0x-

When Lindsay saw Don Flack walking towards her, side by side with Mac, she thought for one moment that this whole nightmare had finally come to an end. It was a subtle shake of the head from her boss that gave her time to readjust her expectations – and her features. Don's grin was sheepish, and guilt-ridden. Ignoring the bloody state of his clothes, Lindsay leaned in and hugged him, hard.

"I'm sorry, Linz," he muttered.

"No need to be," she replied, and found that she meant it. "I'm so glad you're okay." Stepping back, she took in his battered appearance. This time, he caught the expression on her face, just as she intended he should.

"Not my best look," he agreed lightly, squeezing her hand in silent reassurance. "I'd like to say the other guy was bigger than me…"

"You'd _like_ to say?" Humour was safe. Like Don, she employed it to hide her true feelings.

"Caught that, did you? Yeah, Danny would've laughed his ass off. Don Flack and the Weasel; not the coolest showdown in cop history."

_Danny would've laughed…_ Meaning he wasn't part of it. _I hear you._ "Who won?" Lindsay ventured.

"That would be the door," Mac announced, with an air of finality that startled both of them. "Don, there's an ambulance over there. I want you on it. No." He held up his hand as Don opened his mouth to protest. "You promised. No refusals."

Lindsay waited for the argument that was bound to follow. Don Flack was not well known for his love of hospitals and, right now, his lips were set in that obstinate curl she had seen many times before.

"Don?" Mac insisted quietly.

"Okay. Sure," the detective replied, much to Lindsay's amazement. "I can do that."

Squaring his shoulders with difficulty, he turned and set off through the snow, like a kid pulled from the last round of a street hockey game to go and do his homework. Lindsay watched him for a while, sifting questions in her head until she found one that rose to the top.

"Did you see him? Danny, I mean? And Adam… How are they holding up?" _Couldn't you save them as well?_ The mean little voice was full of accusation. Lindsay would never have uttered those words, not to Mac, but this fresh disappointment was so hard to bear. She forced a grim smile worthy of the man himself. "What happened in there?"

Briefly, succinctly, he outlined the sequence of events, taking time to linger on the moment when Danny called his name.

"Did he sound okay?"

"He sounded fine, Lindsay. You know Danny. He's been through worse and come out smiling. They both have."

Her throat tightened as Mac went on to describe the final terms of Tig's surrender. "Danny for a killer. Are you going to do it?"

"I'm going to get Danny out," was all Mac said, and she knew that he meant it. "Adam too, before this night is over."

Adam. "Mac," she ventured, "Adam's in a bad place."

"I know – but Danny's with him, Lindsay."

"No." Lindsay tried again, determined to get the words out this time. "I mean, he's low; really low. That's why the guys took him out, to try and cheer him up. Which was kind of my fault," she admitted slowly. "I thought he was grieving for Jessica Drake – they were friends, you know? It was Sid who told me… I should have seen it for myself. I should have asked him… It was written all over his face, Mac, and I never thought…"

"Lindsay." Mac took her hand in a simple gesture of compassion. "Just tell me."

She nodded. No more secrets. Adam would forgive her, she was sure of it. Mac needed to have every scrap of information at this point, including a better understanding of the young man's state of mind. "Mac, Adam's mother died two weeks ago. He's been struggling with her loss ever since. And I think, when Jessica was murdered…"

"That was just too much to bear." Mac nodded, though his jaw was tight and his eyes were pained. "I see," he continued, and there was a wealth of meaning in the simple phrase. "Thank you, Lindsay. You were right to tell me. I didn't know."

Such a bald confession from the man who was even more reluctant than Adam Ross to share his private world. Lindsay felt an overwhelming sense of relief. "Okay," she nodded, sensing the need to change the subject. Job done. Move on. "What now?"

"Now?" Mac said, rubbing his hands against the icy chill. "I need you to do something for me - if you've finished here."

"What's that?" she asked, made suspicious by the twinkle in his eye.

"Go check on Flack - and make sure he's not charming some female paramedic into releasing him so he can stay."

Lindsay chuckled. She felt much lighter and full of renewed hope, for some unknown reason. "It's almost like you know the man," she retorted, as she turned to follow in Don's slushy footsteps.

-x0x-

Wearing a solemn, respectful face, Sheldon entered the red-brick Church of the Holy Cross and tried not to think about how badly he was going to drip all over their nice clean floor. Outside on West 42nd Street, the snow continued to fall as though it could not bear to stop.

"Pleasant evening," Father Clement said, holding out his wrinkled hand in a time-honoured gesture of welcome.

Sheldon shook it gladly. "Sarcasm, Father?"

The old priest chuckled. "You think God doesn't have a sense of humour?"

"Oh, I know he does." As Sheldon spoke, a drip ran down his forehead and took a slow dive from his nose. Both men grinned. "And excellent timing, apparently."

"For certain. What can I do for you, Mr. Hawkes?"

Sheldon resisted the urge to correct him. Titles bore little importance this evening, and besides, years of service with Danny and Don Flack had taught him that pedantry was less than helpful when trying to make a good impression.

"I'm here for information, mostly. About the body you found this morning?"

"Ah." The old man flushed. Was it Sheldon's imagination, or did he look uncomfortable. "Yes; your John Doe. Not the most appealing way to start my day. On the other hand, I'm glad it wasn't Marta who found him – she comes in early to set up the soup kitchen for our less fortunate neighbours. A sensitive soul, and prone to hysterics, I'm afraid. Not that I'm one to judge." He gave a wary smile. "We all have our failings."

Digging in his damp coat pocket, Sheldon pulled out his phone and showed the priest a picture of the victim. Father Clement looked at it sideways, through half-lidded eyes. "Yes, I've seen him, thank you."

"Sorry, Father. But I need to ask – are you certain you haven't seen him _before_ today? It just seems so strange that someone should pick this church as a dump site without some kind of logical connection."

"Do you find that logic features often in your profession?"

"I search for logic in everything," Sheldon told him seriously. "Human nature may seem strange at times but if you look behind a person's actions, you can always trace the path that led him there."

"Like moves in a chess match."

"Exactly. But – excuse me, Father – could you look a little closer at the photograph?"

Father Clement shuffled his feet and this time there was no mistaking his shame-faced expression. "I'm sorry; no. I have… a problem. It's the sight of blood, you see. It makes me sick – so distressing – and this morning; well, this morning… I had no wish to – how do you put it? – contaminate your crime scene. So I gave the poor man's face a cursory glance. I don't _think_ he was familiar."

Sheldon tried not to sound too stern. "Look again. If you please."

With a sigh, Father Clement steeled himself and stared at the image, taken post-autopsy. "Mmf," he mumbled, placing his hand firmly across his mouth until he had his gut under control.

"Take your time," Sheldon told him, with sudden sympathy. "It's very important. People's lives are hanging in the balance and every piece of information we can gather will make a difference. His name is Theodore Unger – we know that already. Are you sure he's not a member of your congregation?"

Father Clement gave a start. His hand dropped, and his mouth fell open. "Theo? This is Theo? Oh, my dear boy, I'm so sorry." Whether the term of endearment was meant for the victim or for himself, Sheldon could not be sure. The urge that had brought him all the way to Holy Cross in the middle of a snowstorm was vindicated, however, and he waited impatiently for the priest to continue.

"Theo?" he prompted.

"Yes. Theo Unger and his family. He's something of a lost soul – only comes at Christmas these days, and Easter, with his kids. Wife died, long ago… you know how grief can affect people, Mr. Hawkes. But the rest of the Ungers – well, they're a valuable part of our congregation. They know their duty to the poor and needy in this neighbourhood, as we all do here at Holy Cross. It's our calling. Oh!" Father Clement clasped his hands together. "They'll be devastated. Theo had his faults, but he was loved. Who could have done such a terrible thing to him? And left him here, for all to see?" His voice faded into silence and he turned away to stare through the peaceful shadows that filled the church, fixing his gaze on the distant cross.

Sheldon left a respectful beat before speaking again. "If I wanted to speak to his family…?"

"I suggest you begin with Ilse." Father Clement struggled to return from his reverie. "She's a real old-fashioned matriarch. An iron hand in… well, an iron glove. No softness there, but love, bound up in duty. Duty over everything, I'd say. Those boys – they were brought up to be honest. What happened after that… well, it's not for me to cast aspersions."

"Cast away," Sheldon told him firmly.

Father Clement hesitated. "There are rumours… I'm not one to gossip…"

Feeling his patience slip, Sheldon tried to hold onto his manners. "Father. Right now, Theo's son is holding two of my colleagues hostage in a cock-eyed attempt to avenge his father's death. So I'm sure that God will forgive any lapse in discretion."

The priest nodded. "Yes. Yes, you're right. Very well. The rumours – and there are many, I'm afraid – suggest that the income of the Unger family is garnered by less than savoury means."

"In other words, they're _all_ criminals."

"Allegedly. The younger generation, you understand me, not the mother. Ilse would box their ears and send them to bed without supper, even now, if she believed for one second that her precious boys had formed a gang."

A gang. Fantastic. Sheldon sighed. "How many boys – I mean, men – are we talking about?"

Father Clement counted on his fingers. "Ben, Eric, Patrick, Carl… five, including Theo. Does she know…?"

"His mother? No, we haven't told her yet."

Dropping his voice to a whisper, Father Clement laid his hand on Sheldon's soggy sleeve. "When you do," he said, "take cover."

-x0x-

**A/N: Here we are at last – and I hope you enjoyed it.**

**Gwyn – in answer to your question, no, of course I won't do that!**

***A quote from 'The Snow Storm' by Ralph Waldo Emerson.**

**More soon!**


	21. Chapter 21

**THE STANDOFF**

_This chapter is for Gwyn, and all the other Flack fans out there._

**Chapter Twenty One**

Don Flack hadn't realised quite how much he was relying on adrenaline until it left him. Luckily, Lindsay was nearby to catch him when he staggered.

"Mac sent me to check on you," she scolded him. "Good job too."

"I was heading for the ambulance," he grumbled. "I keep my promises."

Holding him steady for a moment, she peered into his face and relented. "Slow going?"

"Something like that. Blame the snow - it's slippery out here," he said with the best attempt at a nonchalant air that he could muster under the circumstances.

"Yes, it is." Lindsay appeared to be calm on the outside but Don could sense that she was battling with some inner demon. "Don…?"

"He's okay," Don told her quietly, anticipating the question. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "Balance," he lied. "You want me to get there, you're gonna have to help me. Look, Danny's holdin' on, Linz; you know how he is."

"Yes, I do," she said wistfully. "I remember…"

_An old, beat-up warehouse. A friend with his bloody shirt in tatters. _"So do I, believe me. Danny got outta that hole in one piece – more or less – and he'll do the same right now; you wait and see."

"Waiting – that's the hard part," Lindsay sighed. "And Adam's okay?"

Don stumbled. Filled with a shame that he had no right to feel, he leaned down heavily on Lindsay. Just as he had always suspected, she was stronger than she looked. "Adam's stubborn. Sometimes I think that's his best trait."

"You're kidding."

"I'm not. Now please," he continued, letting just a little of the pain that he felt bleed through into his plaintive words. "Will you help me to the ambulance before I embarrass myself completely by falling at your feet?"

She nodded, and they set off through the falling snow. "You look terrible," she panted.

"I know." Don tried to sound smug. "I'm goin' for the sympathy vote."

"You mean, you're hoping for a female paramedic so you can wheedle her into letting you stay."

"Did Mac tell you to say that?" he guessed, feeling quite offended – mostly because it was close to the truth.

"Don Flack, you're an open book," Lindsay told him sweetly. "Here we are," she added, waving to the lone ambulance that had made it through the muddled streets to reach the scene and offer its assistance. "Don't let him out of your sight," she cautioned the waiting paramedic, who was indeed female, and built like a prison guard.

Don switched on the charm, ignoring Lindsay. From the corner of his eye, he could see that his unconscious foe was already inside the bus, cuffed to a rail on the gurney_ and _strapped down for good measure, with an officer sitting beside him. "She's just kiddin'. I'll be a much better patient than _him_."

Lindsay shook her head. "Strap him down too," she advised the paramedic with a grin, as she unhooked Don's arm from her shoulder. "He's slippery."

"Detective," said the officer on board, also grinning. "You look like hell."

"Yes, I do," he agreed, thinking privately that Niall looked far worse. That was very satisfying. Perching himself on the tailboard, Don looked up at the dark-haired paramedic and offered her a winning smile.

"There's blood on your teeth," she countered firmly, dashing all hope of a quick examination and a sneaky escape. "Any pain there?"

"Nope – I'm good. Got a headache, though," he confessed, admitting defeat with a gracious air of suffering. "And a multitude of cuts and bruises. My name's Don, by the way. Don Flack."

"I'm Helen." She glanced at him shrewdly. "You flirting with me, Detective Flack?"

He raised his hands in a weary show of indignation. "Just bein' friendly is all."

Lindsay chuckled, and turned to leave. "Goodbye, Don. See you at the hospital. Strap him down," she repeated to Helen. "That's my advice…"

Don shook his head, full of woe, as his friend slipped and slithered her way back to Mac, and the action. "Lack of trust is a terrible thing."

"I don't know," said Helen sagely. "Seems to me she knows you pretty well. Now, tell me – where exactly does your head hurt…?"

-x0x-

He endured all of her poking and prodding with what he considered to be infinite patience. Truth be told, he was exhausted and pretty woozy from the combined effect of the fight and the bump to his head. "So, what's the verdict?" he asked Helen, when she had finished. "You still takin' me to the hospital, or am I free to go?"

"Detective Flack, your head may well be hard, as I suspect, but that's a nasty bump you've got. And some of those cuts need stitching. So you're coming in with me, and there'll be no more complaining about it."

"He comin' too?" Don said warily, nodding his head in Niall's direction. "Ouch," he added, as the action set off a wave of unexpected nausea. "Feel sick."

"I'm not surprised. You've been through the wringer and your body is just catching up. And yes," Helen continued, sounding less enthusiastic all of a sudden. "He's coming too. One bus, two passengers."

"Three," said the officer, folding his arms. "I've been ordered to keep a watch on this guy. The perp, that is, not Detective Flack," he added unnecessarily.

"Ha ha," Don grumbled, before realising that it wasn't meant to be a joke. _No sense of humour, this one, _he sighed to himself. As he rose to his feet and climbed up into the back of the ambulance, he gripped the door frame discreetly.

"Need any help?" Helen murmured.

"Nah. I'm good." He sat down heavily near the officer, a heavy-set, bland sort of fellow whose badge proclaimed that his name was Holstein. "So - you got stuck with baby-sitting duty, huh?"

The officer sat up straight and tried to look important. "He's a dangerous felon."

"Yeah, in his own mind," Don said quietly, shivering as another flash of nausea chilled him to the core. _Get a grip, _he commanded his gut, but his gut had held on far too long already and now it was revelling in its distress. He clamped a hand across his mouth – and Helen placed a basin on his lap.

"In case you need it," was her calm explanation. Don gave her a grateful nod, which she missed, since she had already turned to close the double doors.

As she sat down beside Don, her colleague started the engine. He was a mousy little man with tiny spectacles, who had not spoken a word since Flack arrived, but he could certainly drive, as the ambulance rolled through the slush and the snowdrifts without a hitch, pulling out from the scene and heading off into the night with its siren wailing mournfully.

"'S too loud," came a mumbled complaint from the gurney.

Don kicked the metal leg discreetly. "Sleeping Beauty's wakin' up," he muttered to Helen. "Haven't you got somethin' that can put him out again?"

"I've got the means but not the right," she replied, sounding rattled by his suggestion even though her eyes were full of regret, suggesting that she, too, was wary of the ugly, battered little man.

"He's strapped down," Holstein reminded them with stubborn logic. "He's not goin' anywhere. You know, other than the hospital."

_Thanks for that, genius. I hadn't noticed. _Don refrained from saying the words out loud. Instead, he watched the straps with avid fascination, as Niall began to twist and wriggle like a fish in a net.

"Get me outta this rig," the man protested, fully awake by now. "You can't tie me down – that's not legal, okay?"

"As a matter of fact, it is – for a scumbag like you," Don told him, instantly drawing Niall's attention away from the straps. Cold eyes glittered, full of fury.

"It's you!"

Don's teeth were clenched against the lingering nausea. He turned it into an irritating smile. "Last time I checked."

Helen raised her hand to hide a tiny snort of nervous laughter. Niall sneered.

"This one ain't as pretty as the last one," he told Don. "Your standards must be slippin'."

"Changed your mind yet, about that thing with the means and the right?" said Don to Helen airily.

"Don't tempt me," she growled. "Jason, can't this thing go any faster? I want this garbage outta my bus. The perp, that is, not you two," she explained to Officer Holstein.

Don choked down the sudden urge to giggle. Niall, on the other hand, was infuriated. With a howl of rage, he jerked even harder on the cuffs and the safety straps that held him. Distracted by the noise, Jason looked behind for a split second, taking his eyes off the road – but a split second was all that it took for everything to turn turtle, as the left front wheel hit a nasty patch of slush and the ambulance veered drunkenly into a road sign, slamming hard and tilting over on its side with agonising slowness, like a sequence in an action movie. Drawers swung open; their contents falling in a shower around Don and the other passengers. By the time the vehicle had settled, its siren still rolling in fits and starts, Jason was hanging limply from his seatbelt; Officer Holstein appeared to be unconscious; Helen was gripping her left arm with an expression of shock on her face… and Niall was free. How the straps had broken, Don could not be certain but he had a pretty good idea. The gurney itself was in three pieces and Niall gripped a length of metal tubing in his right hand - the tube that had once secured the dangling handcuffs - as he stared at the battered detective with a look of naked triumph.

Don himself was on the floor… _or is it still the side,_ he asked himself dizzily. _Nope – doesn't matter…_ He lay in a puddle of bandages, micropore tape, scalpels, suture kits and – right next to his head – a heavy case marked 'defibrillator'.

_Close one…_

Niall stared at him greedily, holding the bar aloft. Don feared the thoughts that were running through the other man's mind – but suddenly Niall tore his gaze away, leapt for the doors and wrenched them open, jumping free before Don could even think about chasing after him. The detective surged up, scattering packages everywhere, as the ambulance rocked around him.

"Go," Helen urged. "I've got this." Already, she was reaching for the radio with her good arm. Hanging sideways in the front seat, Jason groaned.

"Whu…?"

Don didn't wait to hear their conversation. He could trust them to care for Holstein, and to fetch help. His single focus now, the urge that drove him to his feet and out of the ambulance into the frozen air, was the fleeing man that seemed to be his nemesis tonight.

Spread out like hunter and prey, they ran. The falling snow was both a blessing and a curse. Flack could barely see through the flakes that battered his face, slipping into his open mouth and almost choking him – but he could follow Niall's footprints. It was late now, and the nasty weather meant that the streets of Manhattan were almost empty. Don closed his mind to everything but the fleeing figure ahead of him. His bruises were nothing; his headache was an unimportant niggle. Only the thumping of his feet was real, as he tried to keep himself from falling. His clothes were soaked already and his hair was dripping. He panted like a dog, sucking in the cold air and heaving it out again. "Come… back… here… you _jackass_," he grunted, spurring himself on to even greater speed with a determination that was bound to drive him into the ground if he didn't catch up soon. And little by little, he found that he was gaining on Niall. The shadowy figure became more distinct, and Flack gave a low cry of triumph – until his prey turned sideways, ducking out of sight.

Flack reached the point where Niall's footprints disappeared and skidded to a halt - literally. The ugly little man was already halfway up a fire-escape by now, hoping to be hidden from view, but he had reckoned without Don's well-honed instinct. "You're on my turf now," the detective muttered, swinging up onto the ironwork. "Means you're mine."

As he paused to lean out and measure the state of Niall's lead, a familiar metal bar came winging past his head, narrowly missing him. It landed on the street below with a gentle 'whump' that could have been the sound of Don's skull caving in, had Niall's aim been only a fraction more precise. "Focus," Don warned himself, breathing heavily in shock. "And be glad." For now the bar was below him whilst Niall was above, completely unarmed. "Jackass," Don repeated softly, grinning at last as he started the long climb.

Slowly was the best way to begin; gradually gaining speed as his breath evened out and his muscles settled into the jerky rhythm. Clamber – turn. Clamber – turn. It was hard work that set his head spinning, but Don persisted, knowing full well that Niall must be tiring too. "Up," he grumbled, as he had many times before. "Why do the idiots always go _up_?"

The building was a residential one, and the glowing, curtained windows that he passed were strangely comforting. It was funny to think that, on the other side, Joe Public was going about his evening routine, eating junk, watching movies… dating… Now and then, through a chink in the curtains or a badly dropped blind, he could make out a cosy scene and a cluster of startled faces as he blundered into the midst of a Friday night family setting - and vanished a moment later.

The roof was nearing, and Niall was slowing. Now he was four… three… two flights away. Don cheered himself on as the snow pelted down. It was so much more than freezing up here. He could see his breath on the air, snatched away in a warning about the fragility of his life right now. One false move; one blow from above. One struggle in a high place… There was a serious chance that this foolhardy chase wasn't going to end well.

But Adam and Don and Selena were counting on him to avenge their mistreatment.

_No,_ Don scolded himself. _You're a cop. This is justice. You're goin' to catch him; that's all._

When Niall swung onto the roof, Don was hot on his heels and the young man was screaming. "Get away from me!"

"Not a chance," Don challenged him, diving from the ladder like the quarterback he used to be, long ago in a far more innocent life. He crashed into Niall and they fell, landing heavily, wrapped together. Round and round they rolled and struggled, fighting for the upper hand. Niall scratched like an animal, foaming at the mouth in fear and fury. Don was silent, focussed; battling on until, finally, his prey lay still, exhausted and limp in a gathering snowdrift.

As he sat on Niall's chest, heaving air back into his own starved lungs, Don rejoiced in his victory. No door had saved him this time; no unexpected assistance. Instead, he had run down the enemy, faced him cleanly and been victorious.

Staring up at the tumbling snowflakes, he closed his eyes, full of relief.

"That's better," he sighed.

-x0x-

**A/N: I hadn't planned this little side trip but, when it came to me the other week, I knew I simply had to do it. One whole chapter of Don, who is always a joy to write. I hope it was fun for you too!**

**More soon, and this time… a chapter of Mac.**

**Thanks to everyone who is still reviewing, favouriting and following this story. Your encouragement spurs me on!**

**Smuffly.**


	22. Chapter 22

**THE STANDOFF**

_This chapter is for Cornish Pasties. It's long and it's chock full of Mac. Enjoy!_

**Chapter Twenty Two**

"…and he's fine, Mac; really he is. I'm with him now at the E.R. but he's champing at the bit. You know what a baby he is when it comes to hospitals…"

A strangled noise of indignation in the background was probably the man himself, Mac thought as Jo rattled on in full 'mother hen' mode, desperate to reassure him when, in fact, two simple words had already done the trick. _He's fine._ Mac gripped his cell phone tightly. An ambulance crash? A crazy chase through the snowbound streets of Manhattan? _I hope we didn't just use up the last of our luck,_ he sighed. Danny and Adam were going to need it.

"…Mac? Are you listening to me?"

"Sorry, Jo. Thanks for the update. You tell Flack to get his ass into a hospital bed and stay there. The man was a mess when he _left _here." Mac shook his head. "And the others? They're okay?"

"A few broken bones and three nasty concussions between them, but otherwise, yes. Don't come down here!"

"I wasn't even…" Mac protested.

"Really? I know you just about as well as I know Don Flack – better, in fact – and if there's one thing you hate, Mac Taylor, it's waiting. Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you're not champing at the bit as well, wishing you could do something – _any_thing other than stand around, co-ordinating everybody else."

"When you're done with the profile," he warned her, "you might remember that's my job."

"In a pig's eye," she sniffed indecorously. Then she laughed out loud, a wonderfully welcome sound. "Have I gone too far yet?"

"If you have to ask…"

They paused. He imagined her rueful face. "So, Sheldon's going to visit our dead guy's mother? You really think this is some kind of family feud?"

"I know – we're a little skinny on the details right now, but I trust my gut, Mac, and my gut is telling me not to waste time. It's the only lead we've got. It _has_ to take us somewhere."

"I agree. You stay with Don and the runaway perp for now. Make Niall talk, if you can. And tell Sheldon I'll meet him outside Mom's house…"

"Mac!"

He grimaced at the phone, glad she couldn't see him. "You're a very _good _profiler, Jo."

-x0x-

Leaving the scene made Mac feel like a schoolboy playing truant. He squashed down the unworthy shiver of guilt. Morton was more than capable of holding the fort, and Lindsay was motivated – _very_ motivated. Besides, there was only so long he could bear to sit upstairs and gaze at that little screen, watching Danny and Adam suffer quietly as they, too, were forced to let Timothy Unger's ridiculous endgame play out.

Closing the Avalanche door, Mac started the engine and stared out through the windshield. The falling snowflakes were hypnotic and he let them soothe his ruffled spirit while he waited for the vehicle to warm up. Being second-guessed was never pleasant and Jo was annoyingly good – she understood him far better than he would like, which was difficult to handle sometimes. Stella had come equally close, but only Claire had known him in entirety and that was because he had let her in, one layer at a time, unafraid for her to see exactly who he was because he knew that she would understand the gift. Maybe… just maybe he would do the same for Christine one day. Jo's technique was a little more invasive but she did it all with such charm that it was hard to hold anything against her, even if he wanted to.

Mac pulled a weary face. Enough introspection. Time to focus on the task at hand and close his mind to everything else for a while, at least. Bearing in mind the unfortunate fate of the ambulance, he buckled up the seatbelt firmly and set out on his journey with extreme care and vigilance. He had seen many sides of Manhattan but this eerie white silence unnerved him, providing a subtle counterpoint to his anxiety. It was a great relief, therefore, to see Hawkes' familiar face when Mac arrived at his destination, far more quickly than he had anticipated. The doctor was twitchy with cold, his arms wrapped tightly around his chest and a white cloud billowing from his lips, the breath of life disintegrating into the night air.

"You should have waited in the car," he suggested to Hawkes, as he stepped from the Avalanche into a puddle of slush that soaked right through to his toes and made him shudder.

"I don't mind the snow," was the doctor's reply. "It's bracing. Keeps me sharp." _And I need to be sharp,_ his eyes added silently, solemn and dark with concern. Mac appreciated the fact that he didn't demand an update. 'Words later, action now' was a philosophy they both shared. The man was a consummate professional and Mac shot him a tight smile of gratitude as Hawkes turned to lead the way. He followed, shaking snow from the outside of his shoe in an awkward, hobbling fashion that made him feel slightly off balance.

Together, they climbed the apartment steps and Hawkes ran his gloved finger down the list of tenants until he came to the name he wanted. Mac waited quietly. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to let Sheldon take the lead with Mrs Unger. Often, you could learn far more by watching people from the sidelines than you could with a multitude of questions. Jo may be the profiler on their team, but Mac had good instincts, well-honed by experience, and they rarely let him down.

It was late at night by now and the lady in question took some persuading to open the door. _Easy to say you're a cop,_ Mac thought, half-inclined to appreciate her common sense. _Not so easy to prove it over an out-dated intercom system._

With a frown on his face that Mrs Unger could not see, Hawkes used every ounce of verbal charm that he possessed in order to convince her. It was a skilful performance.

"We all have our gifts," Mac told him slyly, when she finally buzzed them in. "Good job."

Sheldon merely grinned. "Manners maketh the man, right?"

"So they say," Mac nodded. "Are you ready for this?"

"As I'll ever be." This time the smile was slightly forced. No matter how many times you had to deliver bad news to a loved one, it never got any easier.

They chose the stairs instead of the elevator, warming themselves as best they could with three flights of brisk exercise. By the end of the climb, Mac's shoe was squelching badly. Sheldon gave him a sympathetic look before knocking on Mrs Unger's door.

Her caution knew no bounds. Three chains rattled, one after another. Slowly, the door opened, just a crack – but even with his limited view, Mac could see the tear still glistening on her wrinkled cheek.

Ilse Unger was already crying.

Thrown for only a second, Mac stepped forwards, changing his tactic mid-stride and assuming the lead. "I'm so sorry to bother you at this late hour," he began, as they both flashed their badges.

"_Spät ist, was du bist. _Late is what you are," she scolded them with unexpected vigour. "My son called you three hours ago. The police in this city have no respect."

"Madam, we came as soon as we could," Sheldon told her carefully. "I'm Doctor Sheldon Hawkes, and this is Mac Taylor, the Head of the New York Crime Lab." Older people often set great store by status, and as soon as she heard the introduction, Ilse nodded with approval, brushing the tear from her cheek and standing up just that little bit straighter.

Both men waited politely whilst the chains were removed from the door. When it swung open, Mac extended his hand. Only then did he realise that Ilse was not alone. A young man was standing behind her, his thick arms folded over his chest and his dark brow jutting in a Neolithic fashion that expressed his anger eloquently with no call for words. "This is Carl," Ilse said, as she ushered them into her cosy apartment. Pools of light fell from several lamps, relieving the gloom and creating the warm effect of a fairy tale cottage, transported magically onto the third floor of an old Manhattan brownstone. "He's my youngest. Sit!"

Startled by the commandment, both Mac and Hawkes fell back onto an overstuffed couch, where they sank into a colourful bog of hand-embroidered cushions. Sheldon's legs stuck out at a childlike angle. Mac's toes (much to his relief) brushed the floor. "Mrs Unger," he began.

"Ilse," she corrected him. Clearly, she was running through some age-old litany of hospitality. "_Möchten Sie einen Kaffee?_"

"_Bitte,_" Mac replied, hoping that he understood correctly. German had never been his strong suit but he had picked up a few useful phrases on his travels in the past – and right now, he could really do with another caffeine boost.

"Tea, please, if you have it," Sheldon added hopefully. Ilse weighed him up with a fierce look, as only a miniature matriarch could. Meanwhile, Carl stood behind her and glowered.

"Carl," his mother told him, without turning. "Fetch some drinks for our guests."

"But…" said Carl, who was clearly reluctant to leave her alone.

"What – you think the Head of the New York Crime Lab is going to attack me while you're in the kitchen brewing tea?" Ilse chided him scornfully. Carl gave a grunt that was half anger, half embarrassment, and stomped away. Mac relaxed his shoulders, letting out some of his tension. Ilse was small and feisty but the lash of her honest remarks was strangely bracing and Mac found that he rather liked her. Which made the next part of their conversation all the more distasteful to him.

"You said you were expecting us?" It was a question, disguised as an echo of her own words. "Carl spoke to the police?"

"_Nicht _Carl," she told them firmly. "Patrick."

"Mrs Unger has five sons," Sheldon explained, and then paused in dismay as the force of his untimely error struck him like a knife between the shoulder blades. He turned to Mac, from his bower of cushions. "I mean…"

"I think," Mac said, with one eye on their hostess, "that Ilse here is a woman who prefers plain speaking. Mrs Unger, I am so very sorry for your loss. Clearly, you know about Theodore already. Could you tell us exactly what Patrick told you?"

Carl came back and hovered in the doorway as his mother sank down into a chair of her own. Once more, the tears began to flow but she ignored them, calm in her distress as she spun out her dreadful story.

"Theo," she breathed. "Poor Theo. I knew he was missing. My grandson called me this morning, to ask if I'd seen him – but he's never here; not these days. Life has stolen him away. Always rushing about; so busy with this scheme and that scheme, and never the time for his family; not like a good son. A good father." Carl stepped forwards, and she claimed his hand, drawing on his strength to continue. Mac revised his opinion of the dark-eyed young man.

"Your grandson. Timothy?" he asked Ilse quietly.

Ilse nodded. "Poor boy was _verstört _– so agitated. I had Patrick with me at the time – he visits every morning, bless his heart – _und so_ I sent him round to find out more."

"You did?" Mac said evenly, thinking about Jo's report, and the name she had picked up from Erin. Patrick was at the heart of this alright, but not in the way that Ilse believed. More bad news for a grieving mother – but, for now, Mac held his tongue and nodded politely. "Go on."

Ilse was watching him shrewdly, her eyes like twin pools of deep sorrow. "I think there's something you're not telling _me,_" she remarked in a low voice, surprising him more than he cared to admit. Beside her, Carl stiffened. "Patrick never called you, did he? You seem… confused that I already know about Theo."

"Yes." Mac nodded. This was a very intelligent woman.

"More," she breathed. "There's more. His death… means something." In-out, in-out went her chest, as she stared from one man to the other. "Please, tell me quickly. What happened?"

Holding her gaze, Mac studied her in return. How much to tell? How much could she handle – and who would it benefit if he told her everything? Ilse was fiercely loyal to her children, but how far would that extend if she knew the truth about Mac's suspicions? More and more, he believed that Patrick was the key, which meant they had to find him – and fast. He switched his attention to Carl and his face was grave. "I'll tell you what I can, but I need your help in return. That's not up for negotiation."

Carl said nothing but gave a slight, subtle tilt to his head. _Very well._

Throwing the rest of his caution to the wind, and knowing that Sheldon would have his back if things did turn ugly, Mac made a bold decision – some might say cruel, but he couldn't agree - and told Theo's mother everything.

To Ilse's great credit she stayed silent all through his tale and for several long minutes after he had finished speaking. Carl squeezed her hand with a grip that must have been painful but she never winced at the contact. Instead, she curled her knobby fingers tightly around his own. When at last she did begin to speak, her words were for him and him alone.

"You know we have to help them."

"Do I?" he said hoarsely.

"Carl…" she sighed, her tear-stained cheeks shining in the lamplight. "If I can bear it even in my grief…. The truth about _my_ family… The disgrace... God give me strength." Her prayer was fervent. "This is _our_ problem, Carl, and that means it's our duty to make things right. You _know _this to be so, or you are not the son I raised."

He knelt down beside her and gathered her up in a tentative embrace, wary of his own strength and of Ilse's fragility. "I know it, Mother," he whispered. "I'll take them to Patrick. I know where he is."

-x0x-

Mac took Carl in the Avalanche. Sheldon followed behind; close but careful. The snow was plummeting down so quickly by now that the wiper blades could barely clear the screen before it was covered again. "Bad night," Mac said gruffly, making a reluctant stab at polite conversation. Much to his secret relief, the attempt was a failure. By his side, Carl was dark and moody once again, only speaking when it was absolutely necessary. Every direction was delivered in a monotone, until:

"We're here," he said suddenly, and Mac slithered to a halt, hoping with all his heart that Sheldon could see him braking. When no one bumped him from behind, he turned off the engine and twisted his upper body so that he was facing Carl directly.

"I should leave you in the car," he said.

"You won't," the young man replied, hunching like an angry bear. "It's a maze in there. You need me to show you the way."

Mac nodded, pulling out his gun. Not quite a threat, but necessary to make his point. "It's your brother we're talking about."

"Theo was my brother too. I liked him." Carl shrugged, and met Mac's eye for the first time since they had left Ilse Unger's apartment. "Patrick's an ass. He sucks up to our mother, but we can all see what he's like. Ask me, jail's what he needs and I'm happy to put him there. No guilt." He frowned. "You hurt him, though, you'll have to answer to _her_. That's not a good thing."

"I believe you," Mac said solemnly, just as Sheldon tapped at his passenger window and made them both jump. "Time to go, then. Don't get in the way."

Carl pulled a face and gave Mac's service weapon a pointed glance. "Don't worry – I won't."

-x0x-

The Dragon's Hoard, as far as Mac could tell from its humble entrance, was a rambling emporium of what he suspected were largely stolen goods. _I'll have to come back later with the Major Case squad, _he mused, stepping out of the snowstorm and into the musty warehouse. _They're gonna love this._

Behind him, Sheldon took a more romantic view. "It's the Room of Requirements," he whispered, in a rare display of quiet humour. Carl snorted.

"Oh yeah - and you'll find what you seek in the antique mirror section. Patrick's currently homeless, another thing he's kept from dear old Mom. He's made himself a real fine nest there, in the company of those who love him best; his countless reflections."

Mac tried not to let himself be affected by the dreamlike feeling that was stealing over him. For a moment, he could almost believe that he was lying safely in his bed, chasing villains in some kind of deeply elaborate nightmare.

_No,_ he told himself sharply, raising his gun with both hands as he started to creep through the towering piles of junk – or was it treasure, hidden in plain sight? _It's real. It's all real. Just ask Adam and Danny and Don Flack…_

The thought was a sobering one, and suddenly Mac was right there in the moment once again, tightly focussed. Sheldon crept along behind him, watching Carl with a steely eye in case the oh-so helpful brother chose to betray them after all.

He tried to keep his footsteps light but Carl was a lumbering beast who did not think of caution. Anger was the driving force behind his every move; Mac could see it in the set of his shoulders and the heavy glower on his face. "Stay here," he told Sheldon reluctantly as they ventured into a section of the warehouse devoted to curling maps, tattered flags and antique weaponry. "Watch my back. I'll bring him out."

_You sure?_ Sheldon's unspoken question was clear, though he chose not to challenge Mac directly in front of Carl.

Mac nodded tightly. He inched ahead, past a case full of _sgian dubh_, trench knives and other assorted blades; past an old cannon devoid of its wheels; past a lone Confederate battle flag in a sad and mouldy state. The echoes of ancient combat and ritual made his shoulder blades itch, but he dismissed the irrational fear and moved on.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a shadowy figure approach. His trigger finger tightened to within a hair's breadth of squeezing. "NYPD," he announced, as he halted.

Ahead, the shadowy figure halted too and suddenly Mac understood.

He had reached Patrick's nest of mirrors, which had nothing at all to do with vanity and everything to do with the paranoia of a guilty conscience. "NYPD," Mac repeated. "Patrick Unger? I'm giving you a chance. Let's be civilised here – come out with your hands up and we can talk."

Inching forwards ever so slightly, he caught a glimpse of a small, dark man reflected in a gothic mottled looking-glass. This, then, was Patrick. Carl had led them faithfully to his brother's lair. "My name is Detective Mac Taylor. Patrick, there's more at stake here than you realise. Come out, or I'll have to come in – and I'm sure that won't be fun for either of us."

"Go away," said Patrick's voice, shrill and wary. "I've done nothing. You've got no right to be here – and I have every right to defend myself."

_Dammit._ Mac took another step towards the makeshift den of mirrors, trying to make more sense of Patrick's incomplete reflection. There was something in his hand… light bouncing off metal…

The man was armed but the weapon was indistinct. If Mac wanted to know what he faced, then he had no choice but to peer around the corner and see for himself.

He clenched his teeth and shuffled to the very edge of safety. "Patrick," he growled, "you don't want to do this."

"Yes," said the young man dolefully. "I do."

With a move that was reckless and wholly unexpected, Patrick leapt forwards and lashed out with no skill but excellent timing. A long blade flickered into the empty space in front of Mac, who cursed and stumbled backwards.

_He could see me too. How did I miss that? I shouldn't have missed that. _Shocked beyond words at his own miscalculation, he stared at the rip in his sleeve, and the leading edge of red that tracked across the wet fabric. His fingers felt nerveless and swollen, like sausages.

Mac dropped the gun. He couldn't help himself. Using his other hand, which he had trained to function equally as well, he grabbed for the nearest thing he could find to protect himself, as the childish onslaught continued.

That 'thing' turned out to be a walking stick, plain and ugly – but it blocked the next swing, and Mac shuddered with relief. He thought about calling for Sheldon - but Carl was right there too, and where would the man's true allegiance lie with his brother engaged in a fight to the death?

_To the death._ A terrible phrase.

Patrick kicked the gun away and faced his foe, glaring in defiance and clutching an ornate sword with a razor sharp edge. There was terror in his eyes, and guilt too, thick as black flies, feasting on his soul.

"I killed my brother," he said hoarsely. "You can be certain that I won't feel anything when I kill you."

-x0x-

**A/N: Sorry for the slight delay. Hopefully it was worth the wait!**

**Since it has been **_**mumble mumble**_** years since I learned German at school, I made use of my old friend, Google Translate. I apologise for any mistakes made by either of us! We are both fallible, but we mean well ;)**

**A **_**sgian dubh**_**, for those who are wondering, is a Scottish ceremonial blade; still worn as part of the national dress. (And pronounced 'skian doo'.)**

**Thanks for reading! More soon. And Cornish Pasties, I hope that was long enough – though I'm sure you'll be having words with me about the cliffhanger, so I'm bracing myself…**


	23. Chapter 23

**THE STANDOFF**

**Chapter Twenty Three**

Standing still had never been Hawkes' favourite occupation and so, when he heard muffled yells and the sound of a fight drifting down the aisle towards him, he acted without hesitation.

"Stay there," he hissed to Carl, far from confident that he would be obeyed. Carl's eyes were wide and his face was full of indecision. Hawkes gave a deep sigh, raised his gun and set off through the dark maze of dubious treasures. He could only pray that Carl would stay behind him. Let him run, if he wanted to – no one would care. If he chose to follow, and to interfere… "Double trouble," Hawkes muttered grimly. Two brothers, both in a state of high agitation; one a murder suspect, and one whose loyalty could shift at any moment.

Mac had his service weapon, of course. More than that, he was a seasoned fighter, trained in several disciplines – but Hawkes knew all too well that dumb luck and desperation could be lethal too. The swing of a fist or a blade with fear behind it had a certain wild ferocity – meaning it could do damage, and gladly. Hawkes quickened his pace. No shots had been fired so far, which clearly suggested that Mac was unwilling or, worst case scenario, _unable_ to use his gun.

_He's wounded, _Hawkes reasoned, with some trepidation. That first cry had been unmistakeable.

Rounding the corner at last, he took in the scene with a swift glance that confirmed his suspicions. Hawkes' gun wavered. Mac and a short, dark-haired man were engaged in a violent struggle; sword versus… was that a _walking stick_? Patrick Unger's fighting style was worse than erratic and Mac had to work doubly hard to predict each move in order to block it. Hawkes' sharp gaze was drawn to Mac's right arm, clutched tightly against his side, and he also noticed the ragged nature of Mac's breathing, as though his boss had just run a marathon.

_Not good._

Hawkes clutched his gun with both hands in order to steady it and tried to think through the situation logically. A single bullet could end this fight – but they needed Patrick alive and, more than that (so much more), he did not want to hit Mac by mistake. The two men were moving around each other so abruptly that even a carefully timed shot was liable to go astray. Hawkes was an excellent marksman in the controlled environment of the ballistics lab, but out in the field he became much more cautious. As a doctor and an ex-M.E., he knew better than anyone else what havoc a bullet could wreak on the human body. The thought of Mac Taylor lying on Sid's table, put there by Hawkes' own hand, was more than he could stomach.

And yet…

And yet Mac was already weakening. Hawkes swallowed thickly. His finger hovered over the trigger.

That was the moment when Mac turned and shook his head, ever so slightly. _Not yet,_ Sheldon thought with deep relief. Mac had everything under control – of course he did. _I was right to hesitate, _the doctor told himself, but all the same, he did not lower his gun. In the last instant, his one shot could still mean the difference between life and death for his boss and, if that moment came, he would be ready.

Mac battled on. Hawkes marvelled that his stick continued to stand up against such an onslaught. In the wall of mirrors, a host of reflections stepped and circled, making the cramped space seem more like a gothic ballroom, filled with dancing figures, each couple spinning to their doom.

He could tell that Mac was trying to steer himself closer to the gun which lay nearby – but every time the two men drew closer, Patrick lunged away, perfectly capable of reading Mac's mind just as easily as Hawkes had done.

Mac was gasping by now, and his shoulders were hunched. Patrick, too, was exhausted. Their dance slowed down but neither man showed any sign of giving way. The stakes were simply too high. Hawkes tightened his grip once again, feeling certain that the time was coming when he would have no choice but to act. He could see no other acceptable way for the fight to end.

Then, without warning, the world began to topple down around them.

-x0x-

Danny was trapped in limbo, halfway between boredom and desperation. Since Mac's departure, the atmosphere in the bar had become worse than stagnant. There was nowhere to go and nothing to do but fret and fear for the outcome of this ridiculous charade. Marvin, of all people, had found the best solution. Somehow, he was managing to sleep, worn out (Danny guessed) by an excess of emotion. Meanwhile, Tig, whose black mood was deepening, had poured himself a succession of beers. He set the pints around him on the floor like a shield, and drained them one by one. The more he drank, the more Danny's gut curdled. Tig was a cruel man, and an excess of alcohol was guaranteed to break down any remaining barriers that held back the worst of his cruelty. If only he would drink himself into a stupor, and drop the gun – maybe shooting himself in the process, Danny added, with uncharacteristic bitterness – then they could all get out of here, and Adam could finally get the medical help he needed.

"Keep your eyes to yourself, pig," the drunken man snapped – and, with a shudder, Danny realised that he had been staring openly at his foe.

Several retorts came to mind but he swallowed them down and turned his back on Tig - not without a second shudder of apprehension, but he could not bear to look at the man's ugly face a moment longer. Instead, he focussed on Adam. The expression on his friend's pale face was equally distressing but, when Adam saw that Danny was watching him, he composed his features and gave a weary grin.

"Don't say it…" he muttered.

"Say what?" Danny asked, his heart aching for the man. Those black circles – how dreadful they appeared against the sickly pallor of his skin. Yet his blue eyes were hopeful. _He trusts me,_ Danny thought, and that was terrifying too.

Adam cocked his head, watching Danny's lips and frowning. "Never mind. I know how bad… Danny?"

"Yes, Adam?"

His friend looked oddly sheepish. Pressing his free hand against the side of his head as though it pained him, he paused for a moment before continuing. "Can I tell you something?"

"Anything, buddy; you know that."

Adam's gaze slid to a neutral spot on the wall behind Danny's head. "It's… personal."

"Anything," Danny repeated, waiting patiently. Adam really _was_ a stubborn man, if it took a hostage situation for him to bare his soul to the man he claimed as his best friend.

"And… okay, I know I should have said something… Sid wheedled it out of me; he's good at that, but I couldn't…"

"Adam." Danny's nudge was gentle, and he coupled it with a hand on his friend's good shoulder. Adam's gaze swung back, his blue eyes tight with deeply suppressed emotion.

"My Mom passed away two weeks ago. That's where I went, you know?"

He _didn't_ know. How could he _not_ know? How could nobody have seen the signs of such a tragic bereavement? _Lindsay, _Danny thought. _Lindsay guessed._ She may not have known the details but she understood that Adam was deeply unhappy – _and so she sent me on a mission to cheer him up. And look how that turned out…_

"I'm sorry, buddy."

"Me too," said his friend in a small voice. "There's more though, okay?"

Danny listened to Tig as he downed another pint, and heard the heavy thunk of the empty glass as it met the floor.

"We got time," he said wryly.

"My dad…" Adam began the sentence but he could not finish. This was a difficult subject for him, as Danny could tell from the few slight allusions that he had made to his abusive childhood. _My dad was a bully…_ Such a simple phrase that hinted at so much. Danny had pressed several times since then, always retreating when he met resistance – which he invariably did.

Not this time, however. "Your dad?"

"He's not right. Danny, he scares me – but not like he used to, okay? He's lost in his head and I don't know how to find him."

Danny nodded, sensing there was more.

Adam shifted, and winced, and slumped down even further against the base of the wooden bar. "He's here. In New York. No one else wanted to…" The crack in his rough voice was hard to bear. "But if I…"

And there it was, plain for Danny to see. The root of his fear. _If I die…_

Reaching out, he squeezed Adam's good hand and leaned in close so that his friend could hear his words, or read his lips, or whatever it took to understand the truth of Danny's statement.

"You're not gonna die here, buddy. But I get what you're sayin', and I promise you this. Linz and I, we'd never let you down. We'd take care of it – an' you can bet your ass that we'd have help." _Meanin' Mac and the rest of the team, _he thought fiercely. Why could Adam never see how much they truly cared for him? The answer was obvious, of course, but that didn't make it any less distressing. _I hope you're happy in your own world,_ he told Adam's father crossly, revelling in the imaginary confrontation. _You almost broke your son._

And now Tig was trying to finish the job; a fact that Danny resented even more. Twisting his neck, he favoured the drunken young man with an angry glare, caring little about the consequences.

"One hour left," Tig smirked, glancing woozily at the clock on the wall and brandishing his gun in a careless manner that was an open dare for Danny to wrestle it from him.

_What kind of a fool do you think I am?_ The detective clenched his fists against the overwhelming urge and turned back to Adam, his friend; the only man in the room who deserved his attention.

-x0x-

Mac was pinned to the ground, and he didn't know why. It was hard to remember…

"Mac?" said a breathless voice above his head.

He opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was Sheldon Hawkes' worried expression.

"Oh, thank God. Mac, it's okay. Carl was trying to help, and he pushed… Well, you're trapped at the moment, but we'll soon have you out of there. I've called for backup too, and an ambulance."

"Backup?" There was a weight on his chest that squeezed his words and made them sound terribly thin to his ears. His arm was on fire and his legs were immobile. "Carl…?" He fought to remember. In snatches, it came to him. "No, wait… Patrick?"

"Is nearby. When the shelves came down, they dropped their load and smashed all the mirrors to smithereens. Patrick is trapped by his legs in a sea of broken glass. He looks like a pincushion." Hawkes tried not to smirk. "He's not happy."

"Shelves?" Mac wheezed.

"Carl saw you fighting. He was afraid Patrick might get himself killed, and that would break their mother altogether. His solution to the problem was… unexpected."

"Avalanche?"

Sheldon's laugh was careful. "That's right." He studied Mac's face. "Are you badly hurt?"

"You're the… doctor, Doctor."

"Ha ha. Sense of humour intact, then. How about the rest of you?"

"Can't tell. Legs pinned. A sword slash to my arm – never had that before. New experience. Can you get me out of this?" Mac clenched his teeth against the rising sense of panic. Trapped; he was trapped in the rubble... Echoes of association taunted him. Grimly, he ignored them. "Hawkes?"

"On it, boss." Sheldon's words were breezy but his dusty face told a different story. "Yell if it hurts, okay?"

"Don't worry," Mac grumbled. "I'm sure I will."

Sheldon moved out of sight. Next moment, Mac heard a grinding noise, and a series of grunts. The pressure shifted on his legs – and a flood of pain surged through his body, targeting his senses.

"Hurts!" he barked obediently, as the pain translated into a bright light that stunned him, followed by a vertiginous fall back into a well of darkness.

-x0x-

"Say what?!" The words exploded from Don's mouth and he struggled to drag himself upright, resulting in a chaotic tangle of arms, legs and blankets.

For some reason, Jo found the sight of Don Flack clad in a hospital gown extremely amusing. She grinned as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, poised for action. Then she waved him back with a pointed look that said '_don't even think about it'. _ "I'm only telling you what Sheldon told me."

"Mac's on his way _here_?"

"That's right."

"Because he got into a _sword_ fight?"

"No, Don; the perp had the sword. I believe…" She paused for effect. "Mac defended himself with a stick."

"Of course he did." Don shook his head and then groaned.

"Headache worse?" Jo asked him, full of sympathy.

"Like a car crash in my skull," he nodded, aiming for 'stoic' and veering wide of the mark.

"Poor boy." One hand lingered behind her back. She lifted it, and shook the paper bag that she had brought from a nearby bodega. Don eyes grew wide and he smiled appreciatively.

"Medicine," he crooned.

"Of the circular, sugary kind," Jo nodded. "Meant for patients who stay put, in spite of extreme provocation."

"Ah," Don said solemnly. "Bribery." He dragged his finger over his chest, back and forth in an exaggerated fashion. "Cross my heart, I'll not go sneakin' around the place, lookin' for Mac. But you gotta keep me in the loop, Jo. I'm not kidding."

"Deal," she agreed, as she stuck out her hand. Don took it, and shook it, and let go in order to cram a donut into his mouth with great relish, as though he had never tasted food before.

The banter was light, and the friendship was real – but the look in their eyes, as they stared at each other, was even more honest and showed the extent of their fear.

Mac was on his way here in an ambulance. Their rescue team was growing smaller. "Must be bad," Don muttered, as he swallowed the treat like a lump in his throat.

"You mean Mac? I don't know…" Jo sighed. She couldn't imagine a conscious Mac Taylor agreeing to be side-lined for _any_ reason, medical or otherwise, when two of his men were still hostages.

"Phone Hawkes," Don demanded. "Get more details."

"I can do better than that," Jo replied, as she turned to leave. "Mac'll be here any minute. And I always like to get my information straight from the horse's mouth."

"Then I pity the doctors," Don called after her, pulling a second donut from the bag and stuffing the rest of his stash out of sight beneath the rumpled blanket. "When you're done harassing them, come back here, okay? Don't leave me hanging. And Jo?" he added suddenly, his sharp tone causing her to spin round on the spot.

"What now?"

"Has anyone thought to call Lindsay?"

-x0x-

**A/N: Gwyn - I'm sorry. I know you asked for a speedy update. Unfortunately, I couldn't manage it, but I hope the addition of Flack to this chapter will go some way towards appeasing you!**

**Thanks to everyone who is still reviewing/following/favouriting this story! Seriously, thank you! It means such a lot to hear from you.**

**More soon.**

**Smuffly**


	24. Chapter 24

**THE STANDOFF**

**Chapter Twenty Four**

Lindsay could hear Sheldon's voice. She could hear the words that he was saying and make perfect sense of them. The doctor rattled on in a breathless fashion, spilling news like raindrops - and all the while, Lindsay's heart beat steadily and her own breath did not quicken since she could not bring herself to believe his story. She felt muffled; wrapped in stillness, standing in the vortex at the heart of a turbulent storm.

"Detective?" Morton's reassuring even tone dispelled the numbness and released her from her frozen state. That was the moment when Lindsay realised she was holding a silent cell phone to her ear. When had Sheldon disappeared? She lowered her hand and turned around, peering through the snowflakes. Morton was waving her into the shelter of his truck. As she climbed aboard, he gave her a nod, his own subtle gesture of encouragement. "Tell me," he said.

She swallowed. "Do you want the bad news, the very bad news or the news no one really cares about at this point?" she asked him. It was a painful attempt at levity - a futile mask to cover her distress - and it came out of her mouth sounding more like bitterness, which startled her. "I'm sorry. Forget I just said that."

"No need to apologise. You're a natural optimist; I can tell. Bad news comes as a nasty shock when you dare to hope for the best in every situation."

"Are you saying I have unrealistic expectations?"

Morton's eyes were kind as he hastened to reassure her. "I'm saying don't lose your faith. We're not done yet - not by a long shot - and look how far we've come already. Tell me what your colleague had to say. Bad news…?"

"Bad news," she murmured. "They found our murder suspect but he's on his way to hospital and won't be leaving any time soon."

"Meaning he won't be here for our deadline. That's a problem, certainly." Morton's thoughtful manner made the whole thing sound like some kind of technical issue they could easily resolve. Lindsay almost dared to believe him. "And the very bad news?"

"Mac's on his way there too. He's... hurt." The words were difficult to say. "There was some kind of fight, Hawkes said, but I don't understand..." Sheldon's explanation had been so absurd. As far as Lindsay was aware, Mac had gone to visit Mrs. Unger. With that in mind, how on earth had he managed to end up in a _sword_ fight? "He's unconscious right now... I don't know..." _I don't know..._ Mac Taylor was their rock. _I don't know how this could happen, right when..._ "We need him," she whispered, and was embarrassed to discover that she had spoken her selfish thought out loud. Red-faced, she let her gaze latch onto a random stash of Kevlar vests and studied them diligently.

To his credit, Morton pretended not to hear. "Mac's tough. I know it and so do you."

"Yes," she said, looking up. "Yes, I do. He'll be fine; of course he will. But..." _Danny,_ her heart cried out.

"What was the third thing?"

"Excuse me?" It was so hard to stay focussed.

"The one that nobody cares about," Morton said steadily, watching her with the air of a doctor regarding his patient.

"Oh," she said, "_that _thing. The Romanov sceptre. Sheldon found it after the fight, on some shelf or other. Which proves our case, I guess, and no doubt the museum will be happy - though Erin Baker might not be so pleased." The thought was oddly comforting. It was Erin, after all, who had set off this whole distressing chain of events. _Looks like we're the ones who are paying for her crime._

Just as Lindsay had predicted, the look on Morton's face said that this piece of information was irrelevant. Instead, he concentrated on the matter at hand, frowning deeply as he considered their limited options. "I do have a Plan B," he offered finally. Lindsay waited, feeling nervous. She thought she knew what he was going to say and something deep inside her was already preparing to resist, though she could not have put her reasoning into words. It was a gut reaction, pure and simple. "We're dancing to Unger's tune," Morton continued. "We need to take control. Don't wait for the deadline - there's no point now. It's time to strike and my team are ready. Trust me, Lindsay." His use of her first name was a clear attempt to win her over, and of _course_ she trusted the wisdom of his experience, she really did...

"It's a risk," she said carefully.

"One worth taking, don't you think?" Morton stared at her as though he could penetrate her mind and sift its contents, reading her better than she could read herself right now. "We'll get your husband out of there, I promise."

_Yes, _she thought, raw and unhappy, _but in how many pieces?_ Once again, Morton's choice of words had been deliberate, pointing out (kindly) that Lindsay was compromised; irrational, emotional... His logic was infallible...

_But I'm still the one who's right,_ she told herself fiercely. There had to be another way - a _better_ way - and they were going to find it. All they needed was time.

"No," she said to Morton, calm at last. "We wait for the deadline, just as we agreed - and then we get _everyone_ out of there."

Almost as though he'd been waiting for her to assume control, Morton smiled. "That's the job," he agreed, and reached out a hand.

Lindsay shook it. _I see why Mac likes you,_ she thought.

-x0x-

Adam closed his eyes.

For the first time in far too many weeks, he allowed himself to let go of the things that had been haunting him; slowly at first, but with gathering speed until he was floating, free at last. Grief still darkened the bright colours of his thoughts - _just as it should_, he told himself - but the whole effect was softer now, and easier to bear, while the guilty stabs of conscience he had felt since he first took on his father's care were a distant memory. Danny was nearby, and Danny had promised him that everything would be alright. Danny always spoke the truth, so Adam believed him.

A small part of his brain - a warning system, sensitive in the extreme - tried to tell him that he was letting go too easily. _But I want to,_ he told it petulantly. Caring so much that your heart almost broke was exhausting. _I'm tired, okay? I'm so tired and I just want to sleep..._ Sleep without night terrors - that was the heavenly goal. In his dreams, his father did not know him.

Wait... no, not dreams. That was real life.

Adam shifted awkwardly and the pain that had settled within him shifted too. In its grip, he was fire and ice; he was here in the bar room and yet, at the same time, lost in his childhood, five years old and terrified, with his father's hands upon him. All was confusion. "Where am I?" he whispered hoarsely.

The hands were gentle, not cruel. He opened his eyes and found that they belonged to Danny.

"_Please_ don't do that again," said his friend, ashen-faced.

His words were much clearer now, since the piercing tone in Adam's ears had dwindled to an irritating whine. "Okay," Adam mumbled obligingly. "Er... what did I do?"

Marvin's shadow fell upon him. "You screamed," the giant chided him. "It was loud."

"Talk about an understatement." Danny shook his head. "You hurtin', buddy?"

And that was an understatement too. _God, yes._ "Nothing I can't handle," Adam lied, though the rasp in his voice was a dead giveaway for the friend who knew him all too well. "I was just..."

"Makin' far too mush noise." Tig was slurring his words by now and the wave of alcoholic fumes that drifted from him threatened to set them all drunk if they breathed in too deeply.

"Ask me if I care... what you think," Adam muttered recklessly, causing Danny to twitch in surprise. Marvin let out a nervous giggle.

"Oh, you'll care," Tig warned him. "You'll care when I shoot you in the head."

Danny sighed. "Think it through," he advised with a measure of scorn in his voice. "You're not makin' sense."

"I get it," Marvin agreed, full of excitement. "I get it! If he's shot in the head, then he's dead and he _won't _care... right, Tig?" Catching his brother's expression, he faltered. Adam could almost see the enthusiasm bleeding from his body, like air from a punctured balloon.

"Oh, yeah, so you're the smart one now." Tig shook his head. "You an' your fancy friends. You makin' fun of me? Your own brother?"

"You make fun of _me._" Marvin's voice was dull but he had found a tiny spark of courage and it burned behind his eyes. "All the time, an' it hurts, Tig. Why do you do that?"

Tig's thought processes were hazy. "I don't... You need teachin', right? I'm helpin' you."

It was almost as though they were slowly switching places. "No," Marvin told him with gathering confidence. "You're usin' me. 'Cause I'm big and stupid, that's what. I always do what he tells me." The giant turned his face to Adam. "Do I have to?"

It was a pivotal moment. Adam glanced at Tig. To his horror, he saw that the barrel of that hated gun was pointing straight at Marvin's head this time. Tig winked at Adam. _Boom,_ he mouthed. No one else saw the sinister threat. Marvin was caught up in his own emotional outburst and Danny was watching him eagerly. The only person who could save Marvin now was Adam himself - but the cost! The cost was so very high...

Adam lowered his gaze, full of shame, even though he was doing the right thing; he _knew _it. "Yes," he murmured. "Yes, Marvin. Do whatever he says. You _have _to."

"Oh," said the giant, crestfallen, but it was Danny's gasp of dismay that pierced Adam to the core. He closed his eyes again, surrendering to the pain, grateful for the distraction.

-x0x-

_Funny, _Jo thought, _how the brain latches on to unexpected things in times of stress._ The lobby of the E.R. was swimming in slush. A harassed orderly was trying to mop it all up, but each new pair of snow-covered boots or shoes that stepped through the door only served to make things worse. Jo felt a wave of pity for the man. She offered him a sympathetic smile but he only shrugged and kept on mopping.

The dark sky outside, and the dreadful weather, made things seem rather too clear on the inside, like the dazzling effect that comes right before a migraine. Not pleasant. Add to that a waiting room full of miserable, soggy people, steaming gently, and you had yourself a limbo that Jo was keen to escape. In order to do that, she had to locate Mac Taylor. Which, apparently, was easier said than done.

By her reckoning, Mac ought to be there by now. There was a long queue at the desk, so she tackled three nurses, one after another, but all of them drew a blank. Finally, a fresh-faced doctor flagged her down in one of the side corridors, where she had wandered accidentally. "I couldn't help overhearing," he told her. "This way."

"_Thank_ you," she breathed, full of gratitude. "Busy night?"

"Busy hospital," he countered.

"Touché." She liked this young man, with his open manner and his wry grin. "What do you know about Mac Taylor?"

"I know he's the only man in the E.R. tonight who was wounded in a sword fight."

"Touché," she murmured again. The doctor's grin grew even more lop-sided.

"He's also my patient. He was unconscious when he arrived, but he woke up about five minutes ago, so you can ask him about that yourself. I'm sure it's quite a story. Don't take too long, though – I've just booked him into X-Ray."

"For a sword wound?"

"No," said the doctor calmly, "for the crush injuries to his leg and his chest." They were stalking down the middle of a crowded room by now. "As I said – quite a story." He waved his hand in the general direction of the furthest bed and Jo cried out with relief when she saw a familiar face.

"Mac!"

His skin was as grey as the over-washed pillow behind his head, but his eyes were bright. Maybe too bright? "In the flesh," he told Jo solemnly, as she reached his side and gasped to see the air cast that encased his left leg, and the bandages that were swathed around his lower right arm. The doctor busied himself with Mac's chart, close at hand but not interfering with their conversation. Jo appreciated his subtle kindness. Smiling her thanks, she turned back to her boss with a mock-angry glare.

"You scared me!"

"Not… my intention." He punctuated the phrase with an awkward gasp. Clearly, breathing was an issue.

"What on earth happened to you? Last I heard, you were visiting some little old lady. Don't tell me she did this," Jo teased him. At the same time, her gaze travelled down the drip that fed into his hand.

"Not her. Nice woman. Shame about… her family."

"So, did you win the fight?"

Mac shook his head, and winced. "I'd say… we both lost. Jo!" His face grew anxious. "What now?"

Two simple words, but she knew exactly what he meant. "Lindsay's got everything under control," she told Mac firmly, hoping it was true. "All you need to do right now is lie back and heal. That's an order."

"Bet you told… Don the same thing." Mac's brain may have been fuddled by painkillers, but he was still sharper than most. Jo squeezed his hand fondly.

"I had to bribe him, actually. Don't make me do the same to you."

For a moment, he appeared to consider. "Coffee?" he said hopefully.

"We'll see." She squeezed again. "The doctor has plans for you first. Oh! That came out sounding far more ominous than I expected. Sorry, Mac – it's been a long night."

"You… don't say." Mac continued to push past the drugs that were clouding his mind. "Did you talk… to Niall?"

"That creep?" Jo snorted in derision. "Worse than useless. Just kept rattling on about family, and how much Tig's father meant to him – as if we didn't know that already. The only other person in his life who has any kind of influence over him is his grandmother; your new friend. Shame we can't…"

"…use her," Mac finished slowly. Pausing, they stared at each other.

"But we couldn't," Jo said. It was unthinkable…_ almost _unthinkable. "Could we?"

"Lives are at stake. And she's tough." Mac struggled to sit up further, only subsiding when the young doctor gave him a stern look. Jo squirreled _that_ one away to smirk about later, when things were not so tense. "We can't bring Tig… his enemy. What if we… bring him a wild card of our own?"

Jo could tell that the doctor was listening; judging them, even. She kept her words careful. "We'd have to ensure her safety at all times."

"Trust Lindsay and Morton to do that." Mac's face was eager by now. The hope of success was a tonic to him; this plan that was the product of his drugged mind and her desperation. Was it really logical? Would it work – or would they be making things ten times worse?

Did they really have another option?

Jo stepped back and reached for her cell phone. "I'll call Sheldon," she said. "She's met him already so he might be able to convince her. And then I'm going straight back to the bar."

"I'll stay… here," Mac said with a slow nod, as though relenting.

Jo left, still smiling at the clumsy joke, but her heart was pounding in her chest as she dialled Sheldon's number and waited to tell him their crazy, ridiculous plan.


	25. Chapter 25

**THE STANDOFF**

**Chapter Twenty Five**

_No one was paying him any attention. In a ward full of people, everyone's back was turned. This was the miracle Mac had been waiting for – that perfect moment – and he wasn't about to waste it._

_Swinging his good leg around until his foot touched the floor, he winced at the ache in his chest, only slightly dulled by medication. Damned ribs – they were going to be trouble. Holding still, he tried to ease his breathing; slowing it down until the catch at the lower end hurt far less._

_I can do this, he told himself grimly._

_If his broken ribs were trouble then his broken leg was a nightmare of almost insurmountable proportions. He glared at it, willing it to co-operate. Since no one had come to plaster it yet, it was still encased in an ugly inflatable cast that was going to make walking a trial. Mac moved it ever so slightly. Once more, his breath caught and he fell back against the nearby pillow, closing his eyes in an effort to block the wave of dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him._

_If he couldn't get off the bed, then how could he cross the ward, or sneak out of the hospital, or navigate a snow-bound city? How could he help his team…?_

"Painful, isn't it?" said a wry voice, breaking into his fantasy and dragging him back to reality; a reality where hospital sheets were tucked around him neatly and a nurse was hovering nearby, hawk-like, watching his every move as though she could read his mind.

_I hope that isn't true,_ he thought and turned to stare at Don Flack instead. The detective was lounging against the end of his bed, dressed in a hospital gown and a worn robe. "I've had worse," Mac told his friend in an offhand manner, shifting his good arm surreptitiously in order to add extra support to his bandaged ribs.

Don shook his head and sat down on the edge of the bed. "I'm not talkin' about your injuries – kudos for dramatic impact, by the way. I'm talkin' about that look on your face."

"What look?" Mac's eyes were shifty.

"The one that says you're already plannin' your escape route outta here. Which ain't gonna happen, okay? I'm under orders."

"_You _are?" The irony was unavoidable. "You're not even dressed. What happened… to your clothes?" He hated the hitch in his breathing that made his speech sound so unbalanced. How was he going to argue his case when he couldn't even control the flow of his sentences?

"Oh yeah, that," Don said darkly. "Ever try navigatin' your way round a hospital in a backless dress and a skimpy robe? That's tons of fun right there. _Someone_ – I'm not sayin' who, 'cause we both know the answer – someone threatened to steal all my clothes when she ran off to join the action. Made me promise not to follow her, or get dressed, or anythin'! _Maybe_ she was jokin' - it doesn't matter. I woulda stayed put, Mac, with or without her sneaky tactics. You want me to tell you why?"

Mac tried out a grin. It was hard to achieve, but it made him feel a little better. Don Flack had an unconscious knack for brightening even the worst of situations. "Do I… have a choice?"

Once more, Don shook his head. "You need me," he announced. "I can prove it. Tell me you weren't havin' crazy thoughts of escapin' just now and I'll be on my way, right back to my nice warm bed an' my last two donuts." He flashed an amiable grin of his own when he caught Mac's expression at this last remark. "Jo again. Tell me, buddy, am I really that predictable?"

"Turns out we both are," Mac sighed. "So, how are we going to do this? Are you planning to tie me… to the bed or baffle me with logic?"

"I'd say you're pretty much tied down already," Don replied, with a meaningful look at the tube rising out of Mac's arm and the wacky inflatable cast on his leg. "But I'm goin' for logic. Don't look so surprised!" He raised a cautionary finger. "I may not be one of your super-intelligent science guys but I've got mad skills when it comes to confrontation."

"No argument there," Mac said quietly. "Go on, then. Tell me why I shouldn't feel so… useless, trapped in this bed when… Danny and Adam are in danger."

"You know the answer." Don's voice was quiet too. "You said it yourself, Mac. They're our friends – our team. Our _family._"

"You're not… making sense," Mac grumbled awkwardly, trying not to give way to the bitterness and frustration that often comes with pain.

"I'm not there yet." Don shuffled closer, tugging his robe across his knees in a simple gesture that was clumsy yet engaging. "Give me a chance."

Mac inclined his head. _Go on._

Don took a deep breath. "We've been workin' together a long time now, Mac Taylor. I've watched the way you treat 'em – Danny, Lindsay, Adam, Jo, the Doc… hell, me too. You care for all of 'em, just like a father cares for his family, and you've trained 'em well… don't you ever doubt that. One day you'll leave 'em… No, wait, let me finish," Don implored, as Mac tried to interrupt. "You know you will. But you should also know that you'll be leavin' behind a team that can work wonders, with or without you. That'll be your legacy. That's what you've created. It's _because_ of you that they _can_ do this; every one of 'em – Danny and Adam too." He paused again for emphasis. "That's what you have to trust right now."

"But I do."

"You do until it's personal. When that happens, it's like a switch that flips in your head. You think you've gotta be there, fixin' everything yourself; that it's your responsibility, and most of the time you're right… but you know what? You've done enough tonight. We both have." Don's tone was deadly serious. "I know I don't got a right to preach but I'm doin' it anyway. It's a hard lesson – I guess I'm tryin' to learn it too. The best way we can help our friends – our _family_ – is to let them do what they do best and trust 'em to do it without us." He winked, in a bold attempt to lighten the mood once more. "Woozy and Hopalong, stuck on the sidelines."

"Cheering for a win," Mac murmured. He reached out as though to squeeze Don's hand in gratitude, but the look that crossed the other man's face showed him just how unnecessary that would be.

"Of course, if you happen to have your cell handy…" Don continued nonchalantly as he made himself even more comfortable, wrinkling Mac's bed linen with cheerful abandon. "Stuck on the sidelines doesn't mean outta the stadium. We can still keep a close eye on the game…"

-x0x-

"Yes, Mac, Ilse's here with me now," Sheldon reported carefully, having parked the car before answering his cell. No need for any more accidents tonight. The caller ID was no surprise to him – in fact he could have put money on the fact that a bed-bound Mac would feel the need to stay in touch. Nothing could keep the boss man down; not broken limbs, or multiple stitches, or Josephine Danville at her most persuasive.

"And she's happy to do this?" Mac's voice sounded… surprised? Excited? _Medicated,_ Sheldon thought with a flash of humour that felt rather inappropriate, given the circumstances. He quelled it at once and continued to give his report.

"I don't think 'happy' is the right word but she's determined, Mac; very determined. She wants – no, she _needs_ to help undo the wrong her family has done." Sheldon watched Ilse Unger's face in the rear view mirror as he spoke in muffled tones, hiding his mouth behind his free hand. He knew that she could probably hear his end of the conversation perfectly well, but manners were still important, even at this crucial stage, and so the two of them became co-conspirators in a polite deception. Isle looked out of the window at the falling snow, and Sheldon pretended she couldn't hear anything.

"A good woman."

"Brave, too." Ilse's reflection had tears in its eyes but when Sheldon turned to check on his passenger, she lifted her chin and stared him down with those tears unshed. He offered her a nod of understanding. "She can do it, Mac."

"Then take good care of her. And keep me in the loop." Was that an order or a heartfelt plea?

_Doesn't matter,_ Sheldon thought. "You know I will."

They ended the conversation without another word. Sheldon had an inkling that one of his colleagues – Jo, say, or Lindsay – would be getting a call in the next few seconds. He allowed himself a little smirk as he hopped out of the car and skated through the slush, ready to do the gentlemanly thing and open Ilse's door - but she was already standing on the sidewalk, waiting for him, holding herself in a regal, resolute pose. _I don't need help,_ was the message in her eyes. Sheldon held out his arm all the same. After a brief pause, Ilse took it. Manners again. "Thank you, Doctor Hawkes," she told him. "It's nice to meet a young man who knows how to treat his elders."

"Young?" he smiled down at her. "Thank you."

"Everyone is young from my perspective, these days. Tall, too." She shivered, and the tremor ran through both of them, connected as they were. Sheldon's heart went out to the woman. Taking off his scarf, he offered it politely. To his great surprise, she took it.

"_Danke._ So, where do we go now?"

Since this was Sheldon's first time at the scene, he looked around in some confusion. Then he saw Lindsay, and realised that she had been waving at him for some time as she headed towards the pair of them, placing her feet with care. The jumbled light from the squad cars and the street lamps gave her face an eerie cast that matched the pale blanket of snow all around them, and now it was Sheldon's turn to shudder. _I'm dreaming,_ he thought, and would have asked someone to pinch him, except for the fact that the cold was already doing a fine job of _that_.

"Mac called," Lindsay said when she finally reached them. "And Jo's here."

Sheldon nodded. "What's the plan?"

"Time's up. We go in." Her face and her voice were both grim. She stuck out her hand to Ilse. "I'm Detective Messer. Thank you for coming, Mrs Unger. I know this must be a terrible night for you."

Ilse regarded her steadily. "Messer. Like the man inside? The good doctor told me much, you see? A terrible night for you too, then."

"Yes," said Lindsay, simply. Sheldon admired her self-control.

Reaching out, Ilse Unger laid a motherly hand upon Lindsay's arm. "I wish only to help. My family caused this. God give me the strength to set it right."

Lindsay shook her head. "That's not why we brought you here. We would never dream of holding you responsible for the actions of your sons, _or_ your grandsons. We just thought… If Tig would listen to you… If you could speak to him…"

"I'll speak to him _indeed_," the old woman said fiercely. "Such a selfish, crazy, _dangerous _thing he has done here. But Marvin…?" Her voice softened. "What of him? You must know, he isn't like his brother. He's a good boy – a _kind_ boy."

"Then he needs to give himself up. It's the only way. There _is_ no happy ending here for Tig," Sheldon told her honestly. "He's taken this whole thing way too far. But Marvin still has a chance and we have to make them both see that."

Ilse shook her head. "Tig won't care about his brother's fate. It's hard to admit, but it's true. There's something… lacking there. The bond he has, it comes from control, not compassion. If Marvin should turn against him…"

"Bad?" Sheldon ventured.

"Very bad, I think." Ilse gave a heavy sigh. "But let me talk to them and I will try to make them see."

"We can't ask any more than that," Lindsay told her. "And, you know, if it doesn't… If something goes wrong…" Sheldon could hear the pain in her voice, but she continued valiantly. "The fault will be theirs, okay? Don't take it on yourself."

"Perhaps," Ilse offered wisely, "I should say the same to you, Detective Messer?"

-x0x-

They chose to enter from the rear, using Selena's escape route. That way, they could regroup in the corridor, instead of shivering outside the front door.

Standing behind Morton and his team mate, holding her gun in a firm but sweaty grip, Lindsay was glad to have Jo beside her. Two more members of Morton's team stood silently at their back, with Ilse between them. The little old lady was clad in a bulletproof vest on top of her old coat, and looked as though she were clinging to her courage by her fingertips. Nearby, Sheldon waited with a couple of paramedics, ready to assist Adam and anyone else who might need their attention when this was all over.

_Over,_ Lindsay sighed, allowing herself one silent moment to be human. _I wish it was._

Thank God Lucy had no knowledge of the danger that her precious Daddy was facing. Lindsay drew strength from the thought of her beautiful girl, letting Lucy's face hover in front of her mind's eye like a talisman, bringing her luck.

"Are we ready?" Jo murmured, and Lindsay knew that by 'we' she meant 'you'.

"Yes we are," she replied. "Let's bring them home."

"Music to my ears." Jo's confident whisper spurred Lindsay on and she nodded to Morton, who stepped forwards through the doorway into the room that had been the focus of all their attention tonight…

-x0x-

"Whassat?" Tig's head jerked round on his scrawny neck, causing Adam to twitch in alarm and Danny to tense every nerve in his body. "You hear somethin', Marvin?"

"I don't know," his brother replied sullenly. "I don't know, I don't know…" The pattern of words tailed off into a meaningless jumble and he turned his back on everyone with great deliberation. "I don't care," he added, over his shoulder. "I just want to go home now."

"I don't care what _you_ want." Tig laid a hand on Danny's chest and shoved him rudely. "Stand up."

"What?" In point of fact, Danny longed to see what was happening on the other side of the bar, but no way was he going to give Tig that kind of satisfaction. "_You_ stand up."

"Danny, don't…" Adam's husky voice made Danny glance around. The injured man had sunk even lower by now, until he was almost prone on the floor. He looked like a ghost, with glittering eyes, and it seemed he could not bear to wrench his gaze away from Danny's face, as though the closeness of his friend was the only thing that kept him from letting go completely.

Danny changed his mind, and his approach. "That's okay, Adam," he said, deliberately ignoring Tig. "I'm just gonna take a little look. No harm, no foul…"

"Oh!" The tiny word was like a breath escaping. "'Kay."

As Danny raised his head above the level of the bar, his heart beat quickly in his chest. Tig's deal was a two-edged sword; Danny's freedom for the man who had killed his father – but what fate lay beyond that for Adam? _And Marvin,_ Danny thought regretfully. Tig, he did not care about. The man was a total jerk, and a killer too, with no respect for any other person but himself.

Across the room, he saw a pair of riot shields, and could just make out a cluster of figures behind them. One pair of bright eyes locked onto him with such fierce joy that he could have guessed who was standing there from the strength of her feeling alone. "Lindsay," he gasped, and did not care who heard him.

"Ask 'em if he's here," Tig prompted, nudging Danny's calf with the barrel of his gun.

"If _who's_ here?" Danny replied, being deliberately obtuse. He wanted to weigh up the situation while he had the chance; to think about the best way of protecting Adam – _and Marvin, _he found himself adding, yet again.

"They're s'posed to bring the creep who murdered my dad." Tig's voice was sullen now. He was a petulant child in a drunken man's body. "_Ask_ 'em!"

Danny turned to face the riot shields, and Lindsay. "Did you find the perp?" he said.

"We did," Jo's welcome voice replied.

_Odd, _thought Danny. _Jo, not Mac._

"I want him," Tig demanded, raising his voice to be heard, even as he hid behind the bar like the coward he was. "Send him over to me."

"Can't do that, I'm afraid. Your uncle Patrick murdered your father – sibling rivalry would be my guess, or just plain greed. Such a nice shiny sceptre... Trouble is, when Detective Taylor went to confront him, Uncle Patrick chose to fight back. With a sword, no less."

Danny's breath caught painfully in his throat. The world staggered to a halt as he considered every hidden outcome behind Jo's simple statement. Was Mac…?

"Is he _dead_?" Tig's question echoed his own.

"Both men are in hospital," said Lindsay evenly. Danny let out a sigh of relief. "Your uncle is under arrest but we can't bring him here, so we brought someone else instead. Someone who wants to talk with you."

The fury in Tig's face was terrifying to see. Looking down, Danny observed how his fingers curled into claws and the prominent vein in his forehead stood out like a puckered scar. "I don't want to talk," he growled between clenched teeth. Tugging on Danny's leg, he yanked him back down behind the bar. "I want to end this."

"As do we all," Lindsay told him, trying to keep her tone neutral. Tig was enough to rile even the calmest of people. Danny wondered who on earth they had found to talk him down.

"Timothy."

"Gramma?" the angry young man burst out, with a look of horror in his bloodshot eyes. "Are you crazy? They dragged you in here too?"

"No, Tim. I came of my own free will. You're hurting, and we understand that, believe me. So am I, _liebling_. Theo is dead – but he wouldn't want this, not from you. Vengeance was never his way. I knew him, Timothy. You were his baby boy, but he was _mine_…"

Danny listened, just as shocked as Tig. This unexpected turn of events had thrown them all. Adam reached out and clutched his hand in a tight, hot grip. Meanwhile, Marvin had frozen at the familiar sound of his grandmother's voice. _Oh my God, _Danny thought, full of amazement. _This could actually work._

"Come out," the old woman continued, "and we can grieve together."

There was a desperate silence.

"No," Tig said, at last. "This is some kinda trick. You lure me out an' they arrest me. I don't want to go to jail."

"We all must face the consequences of our actions," Grandma told him primly.

Danny quailed. Sitting right beside Tig, he could tell this was no time for a sermon.

"Not me," the young man swore. "I'm makin' my own dam' consequences."

"Marvin?" said his grandmother, abandoning her first attempt. "I know you're there too. Are you listening to me?"

"Yes, Gramma," said the trembling giant obediently.

"Would you like to go home now?"

"Yes, please." Marvin's eyes were shining. "Will _you _take me?"

"In a minute. I need you to help _me_ first."

"Don't listen to her, you imbecile," Tig muttered. On either side of Danny and Adam, the two brothers tensed and stared at one another. Things were coming to a climax, Danny could tell, and he wished with all his heart that he could move his injured friend out of the way because, when these two collided, there was going to be one almighty ruckus.

Marvin clenched his fists and glared at Tig. At last, his time had come. "Don't you _dare _call me that; not ever again," he insisted, clearly emboldened by the fact that his grandmother was nearby.

Tig raised his gun but his finger was shaking on the trigger. "I c'n call you what I like – always have, always will. You're my brother so you gotta take it. That's family."

"No," said a quiet voice from the floor. "That's bullying."

Marvin looked down at Adam. "So it's okay now?"

"Yes," Danny urged the giant. "More than okay."

Marvin launched himself across the two of them. Tig fired at the same time, but even as he did so, Danny jarred his arm so that the shot flew wide, buzzing harmlessly into the wooden bar. Splinters flew – and so did Marvin. He took his brother by the shoulders and bore him halfway across the room, rolling and rolling until they came to a stop. Then he loomed right over Tig like a great bear with its prey, cuffing him repeatedly with first one meaty paw and then the other. Tig moaned and struggled but could not prevail. The gun had already fallen from his grasp, and Danny kicked it far away. _At last..._

"It's done," he yelled, as a scurry of footsteps pounded towards them. Guns bristled – and every barrel of every weapon was pointing straight at the battling brothers. Danny's heart sank.

"Marvin," he urged, "you can stop now."

But Marvin could not hear him. Rage was boiling in his ears, a rage that came from years of abuse.

"Marvin," cried his grandmother, still at a safe distance. "Please, you have to listen..."

Marvin paused. His face was flushed and his eyes were narrow. Drool was dripping from the corner of his mouth. It landed on Tig's battered nose. _Ooh,_ thought Danny, staring at the mess that was their former captor's face. _That's gotta hurt…_ He tried to quell his sense of satisfaction but it wasn't easy.

"Marvin," Adam whispered. "It's done. You saved us. Thank you."

"Oh!" said the poor giant, falling back against the bar and gazing at his blood-stained hands with evident regret that they were capable of causing so much damage. "Okay, Adam."

-x0x-

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed the update!**

**One more chapter to go, full of Mac and Adam, and all good things…**


	26. Chapter 26

**THE STANDOFF**

**Chapter Twenty Six**

Lindsay's face said it all.

She appeared behind the bar as soon as the coast was clear, and the first thing she saw was Adam. Danny watched his wife as she composed her features carefully, but he had seen the flash of dismay in her eyes – and he was fairly sure that Adam had seen it too, right before Sheldon and one of the paramedics dropped down beside the injured man, hiding his face from view.

As they took over Adam's care, Danny felt himself grow lighter, as though a weight had fallen from his shoulders - not that he would _ever_ call his friend a burden. Rising to his feet, he grinned with uncharacteristic shyness. "Yo, Lindsay. Gettin' jealous here…"

From somewhere behind Sheldon's right shoulder, Adam snorted. Lindsay turned to her husband and the deep red flush of joy that spread across her cheeks filled Danny with a warmth that he had missed so deeply, it had been a constant ache inside him. He always ached when Lindsay wasn't there. _I need you,_ he told her silently, knowing she could read his thoughts in every subtle movement that he made.

_You've got me,_ she smiled back, stepping closer. "I can't believe it. Will wonders never cease? Danny Messer, you're not hurt."

"I'm tryin' somethin' new." He shrugged. "It's called 'responsibility'. Had to get home to my two best girls…"

Whatever else he might have said was muffled by the arm that hooked around his neck and pulled him close. "I'm sorry," she whispered, right before she kissed him.

"Sorry for what?" he mumbled, several minutes later. Time had stopped for the two of them, it seemed. Pulling back slightly and scanning the room, he discovered that Adam had already disappeared, off with his escort to face the delights of the nearest E.R. Tig had also vanished (with a very different kind of escort, Danny suspected). Only Marvin was left, sobbing in a corner with his grandmother's arms around him – as far as the tiny old lady could reach – and Jo Danville hovering nearby, a thoughtful, dark-eyed shadow waiting to do her duty and take him into custody. _Poor guy,_ Danny thought, before his attention was reclaimed by the woman who had rescued him.

Lindsay gave a sigh of deep regret. "Next time I suggest a night out on the town for the three of you, be a good boy and refuse."

_Not likely, _Danny admitted to himself, wisely holding his tongue as his wife continued:

"You were supposed to cheer Adam up, not break him altogether."

The mock-accusation was delivered lightly but he answered in all seriousness. "Don't write the poor guy off. He did well, okay? Ask me, he's gonna be fine…"

She stared at him curiously for a moment and he could almost see the cogs turning in her brain. "He told you, didn't he?" she said at last.

Danny nodded quietly. "We had a moment. Turns out, you want Adam to spill the beans about what's buggin' him, you gotta shoot him in the shoulder. Who knew?"

The gasp that burst from Lindsay tipped them both over the brink into guilty fits of laughter. Jo glanced over, startled by the sound, yet clearly delighted to see them so happy together.

It was Danny who sobered up first. "So, wait – Mac's in the hospital. Where's Don? Last I saw, he was heading outta here with that psycho nut job friend of Tig's. And a girl… What happened to the girl?" He could still see the mask of eternal surprise on the face of the dead woman, Nemesis. "They got outta here, right? In one piece?"

"Yes, they did," Lindsay reassured him. "Don's a bit banged up – you can ask him about that yourself – but the psycho nut job came off far worse. He's handcuffed to a hospital bed and nursing his bruises right now. As for Selena, she's the one who saved the day. Would you believe there's a secret passage leading from one of the back rooms?"

"Oh yeah? Wish I'd've known that sooner." Danny's grumble was good-humoured. "Speakin' of leavin', honey – you wanna quit this joint or what?"

She linked her arm in his with a proprietary air. "You really have to ask, Danny Messer?"

"I _always _have to ask. You're my wife," he told her fondly. "I know what's good for me…"

-x0x-

Much to Don's great satisfaction, it was he who won the bet over how long Mac would stay confined to a bed in a dreary hospital ward. Don himself had been released by both Jo and the doctor after an overnight stay. Mac was released on his own recognisance precisely four days and fourteen hours after being admitted, as Don could attest by his substantial winnings. Mutterings of 'déjà vu' floated through the crime lab when Mac was confined to hopping around his apartment on crutches, and more than one person was heard to remark that it was only a matter of time before they had one of his neighbours in custody again.

Unlucky Adam fared less well than Mac. Deserted by the adrenaline and the stubborn survival instinct that had kept him going all through the hostage crisis, he fell into a black hole of exhaustion and lingered there for almost a week, barely aware of anything that was going on around him, or the many visitors who kept a vigil by his side – until, one evening, Don walked in to find Danny talking to Adam in a matter-of-fact tone as the patient sat propped up against a pile of pillows, eating lime green jello and smiling that old 'Adam' smile they had missed so much.

"…and the staff there are great, okay, buddy? They let me in to see him, no bother, after I explained the situation and flashed my badge a couple of times. I told him where you were – he didn't say much, but I reckon he understood. I'll drop in again tomorrow…"

"Thank you," Adam said earnestly.

"I keep my promises," Danny replied with an air of satisfaction.

Adam flushed as he noticed Don Flack standing in the doorway. "Oh – hey," he ventured nervously. "You didn't have to… I mean, thanks for coming to see me."

Don nodded, sauntering closer and neglecting to mention that he had, in fact, been to visit Adam every single day after work. "You look better," he observed, and he meant it. Gone were the dark circles, and the pasty look, though Adam could still do with far more colour in his cheeks. Fresh air; that was the ticket. "They gonna let you outta here yet?"

"I hope so," Adam breathed. His blue eyes were fervent. "I hate hospitals. No offence," he added to the passing nurse who had stopped in her tracks with a look of surprise. She smirked and moved on, mollified by his earnest apology.

"You and me both, buddy. Leave it to me…" With Danny in tow, and Adam gaping like a fish out of water behind them, Don strode off to find the nearest doctor and effect his friend's release. The Lucky Charms he had for breakfast must have done the trick, since one more hour saw them passing through the front door of the hospital with Adam safely in tow, blinking in the daylight as he shuffled along between the two cheerful detectives.

"Could someone give me a ride home?" Adam ventured, gesturing hopefully with his free arm. The other was still strapped to his side, with far more precision than Danny and Marvin had ever achieved.

"I'll drive," Don told him sweetly. "Messer's got a date with a beautiful woman."

"Make that two," Danny grinned, giving Don a high five before turning his attention back to Adam. He narrowed his eyes and adopted an air that was suitably mysterious, much to Don's amusement. "But you're not goin' home, buddy. Not yet. The boss man wants to see you…"

-x0x-

Sitting in the passenger seat of Don's car, Adam watched the world slip by. The snow had disappeared without a trace, the city lights were dazzling, and everything seemed… happier, somehow. _Or maybe that's just the medication,_ Adam thought to himself with a cheeky little grin. "Hey, Flack?" he said, breaking through the comfortable silence.

"Mm?" said Don, who was concentrating on the road ahead, and the line of yellow cabs that blocked his way.

"Can I ask you something? Well, several somethings, okay?"

"Mm-hmm."

It was hard to tell if the detective was actually listening to him, but Adam pressed on valiantly. "What happened to Selena?"

"What?" said Don, feigning nonchalance. "You mean the barmaid?" He turned for a second and flashed a look of triumph at his friend. "I _knew _you were flirtin' with her."

"Does that make me the pot or the kettle?" Adam challenged him, "'cause anyone could see you liked her too. _Selena_."

Lifting a hand from the wheel, Don admitted defeat. "Yeah," he sighed. "Yeah, I did."

"Did? You don't mean…?" Adam's good mood faded and an icy feeling trickled down his spine.

"No, Adam," Don said patiently. "I _don't_ mean that. She's fine. At least, I guess she is – I haven't seen her since she disappeared entirely with that thieving boss of hers. Adler, or Baker – whatever… They left the bar, their apartments - even their identities. Slipped off before we could question them too closely. Typical grifters."

"Oh." Bereft of words for once, Adam changed tack. "And _him_… you know, Tig?" Just saying the man's name was painful. He stared at the shifting tail lights ahead of them and _concentrated,_ hard, until the feeling went away.

"Tig's in jail, court date pending. Got a bad rap in the media, too – well deserved – so I doubt we'll be seein' _his_ ugly face again."

_Only in my nightmares,_ Adam sighed. At last, he had reached the question that meant more to him than any other. "And… Marvin?"

"Yeah, Danny told me how it all went down at the end, there." Don's eyes were on the road, but Adam could feel the force of his rapt attention. "Public opinion – mine too – says that Marvin Unger's a victim, not a felon like his bully of a brother. He'll have to face a jury but, for now, Granny's bailed him out an' he's livin' with her till the trial, at least." Don pulled a rueful face. "She's a tough old bird. I wouldn't mess with her. Somethin' tells me the guy'll be fine, Adam."

"Okay." Adam breathed a sigh of deep relief.

"We can go an' see him later if you like," Don added.

"Oh! I guess… I'll think about it." That was a strange idea and yet it appealed to him. "Flack?"

"What _now_?" Don had been extraordinarily patient with him but Adam could tell that his sympathy had limits.

"One more question," he vowed. "Do you know…? Why does Mac want to see me?"

Shaking his head, Don chuckled. "Oh no," he said, and he wagged his finger too, for added emphasis. "I'm not touchin' that one; no way. You gotta ask him yourself."

Adam bit his lip and sank down in his seat, feeling quite uncertain. He spent the rest of the journey in dutiful silence, compiling a list of plausible answers to his final question, each one more alarming than the last. As a result, he did not notice Don Flack pull in and park the car. It was only when his own door opened outwards and he almost toppled onto the sidewalk that Adam awoke from his stupor.

"We're here," Don said, quite unnecessarily.

"Oh," said Adam. "Good…"

-x0x-

He had been to Mac's place before, of course, and the irony of the occasion wasn't lost on him. Mac had been injured then, too, and Adam – well, Adam had been a hopeless visitor, prying and poking and gaping around the room just like a tourist in a movie star's home. Mac had endured with thinly veiled irritation. Adam could only guess what his mood would be this time.

_Did I screw up?_ he wondered, as the elevator bore him upwards. Flack, by his side, was whistling a merry tune that did nothing to help Adam's nerves. _And is that how I make people feel when I get too excited?_

"Stop it," Flack said, breaking off just to scold him.

"Okay – um, what?"

"Stop beatin' yourself up. Look, Adam, he just wants to see you, okay? No agenda." Flack's eyes widened. "You're not in trouble, you know."

"Oh, I know," Adam lied. "Is he… was he badly hurt?"

"That would very much depend on who you're askin'," Flack smirked. "In Jo's opinion, yes. In Mac's opinion – nah, not really. Sometimes," he added philosophically, "you two are just like peas in a pod. Hey now, that's not a compliment!" Adam was beaming, and Don gazed up at the ceiling in exasperation. "Oh, for pity's sake…"

The door pinged open and they stepped out into the corridor – or, at least, Adam did. To his surprise, Don hung back. "I'm not comin' in," he explained. "Got an errand to run. I'll be back to fetch you later. Enjoy!" He waggled his fingers in a 'farewell' gesture, right before the elevator sealed itself and started to descend.

Now, for the first time in days, Adam was alone. He savoured the peace, then raised his knuckles to rap out a hesitant knock.

"Come in," Mac said shortly.

Okay. _Okay, I can do this._ Adam let himself in with a trembling hand. "Hey, boss," he called out, trying to emulate Don Flack's nonchalance but sounding more like a strangled cat. "I'm here." _Oh, yeah – stating the obvious. Great way to start a conversation._ Maybe Marvin had scrambled Adam's brain for good when he boxed his ears.

"Come on up."

Was the whole visit going to be conducted in such brief sentences? Adam toyed with a few as he climbed the short set of stairs to Mac's living area and glanced at the great big window he remembered so well. _How are you feeling? Seen any murders? Want me to go yet…? _In the end, he plumped for a classic Adam blunder. "You look well, boss."

"Ha ha." Mac gave him a look as he shifted his broken leg in what could only be described as a sarcastic fashion. "You too."

Distracted by the unexpected scrawls across the plaster, and wondering if he should offer to sign it too, Adam swallowed. "Oh yeah, I'm fine, you know? Never better."

That was the clincher. Suddenly, without quite understanding why, Adam found himself giggling – and, to his surprise, Mac was laughing as well.

"We're alive," said his boss, when they both calmed down, "and that's what matters. There was a moment…" he added.

"What, when you thought you were going to die?" Adam asked him sympathetically.

"No, Adam. There was a moment when we all thought _you_ were dead." Mac stuck out his hand in a clear indication that Adam should take it and shake it, which he did. "I don't have to tell you how glad I am that you're standing here in front of me, large as life."

"And twice as awkward," Adam grinned.

Mac tilted his head. "Yes, I know how you see yourself. You think people are judging you, and that we're always going to think the worst. Not true, Adam. You did good." He paused to let his words sink in. Adam stared at him, dumbstruck.

"I… thank you, boss," he managed at last. "Really?"

"Yes, Adam, really. Flack and Danny told me everything. Faced with a deadly situation, you chose to act with integrity and courage. A highly trained officer couldn't have done any more." With a wry look, he gestured to his leg. "A highly trained _marine_ was far from infallible."

"Flack said a bookcase fell on you?" Adam queried timidly.

"Something like that." Mac shook his head. "I'll spare you the details – unless you'd like to hear them? Swap a few 'war' stories?"

"Yes, please," said Adam, and meant it. "I'd like that. But… look, can I make you a drink first?"

"No, Adam," Mac told him firmly. "You're the guest here. Sit down and make yourself comfortable. I've got it covered." Like a magician, he reached down beside his chair and when his hand reappeared, it was holding a flask with two cups balanced precariously on the top. "Lindsay," was his explanation. "Eminently practical. I've even got sugar down here. You take sugar..?"

Time passed in a whirl for Adam after that. It turned out that his taciturn boss was an excellent story teller when he was in the mood. After they had swapped modestly edited versions of their adventures a week ago, Mac moved on to tales of his past. Adam listened, spellbound. Leaning back in his chair, he could feel the last knot of tension draining out of him. Life was good. _This _was good. He could sit here for ever…

A knock at the door startled both of them.

"Flack," said Adam sadly. "Come to take me home." Back to his empty apartment, cold and lonely.

But, when the door opened, Flack had a couple of friends in tow. More than a couple, in fact, which did not seem to alarm their host in the slightest. Danny and Lindsay were carrying dishes that smelled magnificent. Sid Hammerback had a twinkle in his eye and (here Adam started to drool in earnestl) a cake box, fresh from his favourite bakery. Sheldon hopped through the door with a bag that clinked in a very satisfying way. Bringing up the rear was Jo, who slipped right past them all as soon as she saw Adam.

"_There_ you are," she cried with infectious delight. "I've missed those baby blues."

Adam blushed and ducked his head. "Jo, please stop…" he begged her, even as his smile grew wide.

"No," Jo told him firmly. "We're here to spoil you, Adam Ross. Mac's orders, and our absolute pleasure, of course."

"A little family time," Danny added, holding Adam's gaze for just a second so that he could get the point. And he did; he really did.

"Thank you," he whispered. "No one's ever… I wouldn't want to be anywhere else but here with you guys. You _are_ my family."

"Mushy," Don smirked, trading glances with Mac, whose own expression was deadpan. "But appropriate. I believe I heard a wise man say somethin' similar, just the other day. No, wait… that was _me._" He turned to Sheldon. "Got any beers in that bag of yours?"

As the party flowed on all around him, Adam closed his eyes. He felt safe and warm, and _loved._ He was also deliciously tired. The last thing he heard before he fell asleep was Lindsay's happy laughter, mingled with the hum of conversation. The sound filled his dreams - and they were good.

-x0x-

**The End**

**A.N. Yes, it really is the end, and I hope you enjoyed it! Thank you to everyone who came along for the ride – who read, favourited, followed, or reviewed this story. In particular, I would like to thank all those people whose repeated encouragement has kept me going. I started this story for Cornish Pasties (and she's cracked the whip behind me all the way!) but there are many others who have written reviews for almost every chapter and I am so very grateful. Adam and the team are a treat to write, but it's also a treat to know that people have actually enjoyed the madness that comes from my fluffy brain…**

**Smuffly**


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